Every Atom Belonging to Me
by aghamora
Summary: In which mutual affection is found amidst mutual misery. - - Éponine/Javert, oneshot.


**Summary: **In which mutual affection is found amidst mutual misery. - - Éponine/Javert, oneshot.

**Note: **AU, musical!verse, includes elements of book as well. The Thénardiers are bourgeois. The Valjean/Javert conflict occurred sometime ago; however, both are still alive at the time this fic takes place. At the beginning of this story, Cosette and Marius have not yet met one another. Any further alterations to this universe should be covered within the body of this fic.

I apologize if this whole thing seems somewhat fragmented, irresolute, or poorly edited. It's basically several chapters of an unfinished, abandoned story titled_ Lifeblood_ that I put together in a long one shot because I knew that fic would never be published in its entirety. I just didn't want to let this thing totally die and have written it all for nothing.

Any time you see a **()**, that indicates the end of what was once a separate chapter and the beginning of another. Normal page breaks are just normal page breaks.

Thanks for reading. This will probably be the last thing I publish for the Les Mis fandom because I've moved on to other things, but you all have been really lovely during my time here, so thanks. :)

* * *

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,  
And what I assume you shall assume,  
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

- Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

* * *

_**Every Atom Belonging to Me**_

* * *

The scene at the Thénardier home was, at best, chaotic.

"But I-I don't want to marry that man!" was heard from one corner of the parlor, where the eldest daughter of the family – Éponine – stood, gesticulating about wildly as if her movements could somehow better prove her point. Her face was flushed with anger, her usually calm demeanor abandoning her and being replaced with sheer, all-consuming panic.

"You will marry him, my girl, and I will hear no more protest about it!" came from the other side of the room, where the man of the house – known by most as simply Thénardier – sat, his countenance riddled with anger at his daughter's disobedience and a vein in his neck throbbing as though it could burst at any moment. Mme. Thénardier sat in silence next to her husband on their small sofa, while their younger daughter Azelma and their servant cowered near the doorway, observing the conflict as it escalated with trepidation, for both knew that the master of the house had an easily provoked and often frightening temper.

One might've inquired as to what had caused the aforementioned conflict, and the answer was simple: the eldest daughter of the Thénardiers had only just been informed she was to marry. It was, however, not the idea of matrimony that disturbed her, for Éponine wasn't at all greatly opposed to marriage. Ever since she was a girl, she had known she'd eventually have to wed, and so she'd hoped to make a good match; a caring, handsome young man who was heir to his wealthy father's fortune, perhaps. Or, as she'd also hoped so desperately for, a marriage to the Pontmercy boy, Marius, with whom she'd been friends ever since childhood. Éponine's feelings failed to stop at mere friendship, however, and though she would never admit it if asked, she'd begun to suspect she was in love with him. Oh, if she'd been given the choice, Éponine would've wed Marius Pontmercy in a heartbeat. The happiness she felt when she was in his presence was unmatched by any feeling she'd ever felt before in her life; every time he smiled at her, she felt as though nothing could ever hurt her again. But she had not been given any such choice, and the reality was that her father had already arranged a betrothal – a terrible, horrible, far from preferable betrothal.

A betrothal to the coldest, most unkind man Éponine could think of: Inspector Javert.

Though she did not know him well, she'd heard countless things about him that were not to her liking. He was, at the very least, twenty years her senior – likely more – and the idea of wedding someone nearly the same age as her father unnerved Éponine. She wanted a man she could grow old with – not a man who would lie cold in the ground long before she'd ever even reach old age! Éponine had heard how mean and frightening and merciless he could be, and she'd heard how some people had even begun to speculate that he was queer, for he'd never taken much of an interest in women as long as he'd been in this city. Why then, she wondered silently, had he chosen to find a wife now? And why her? Surely there was someone else he could marry; someone wealthier, more beautiful, with a higher social standing. She couldn't fathom why he'd picked _her_ over all the other young maidens in Paris. Her father was not exceptionally rich nor was he always on the right side of the law, having dabbled in crime with the Patron-Minette street gang when he found it to his liking. Indeed, her father had harbored a remarkable distaste for rules all his life, and so, she thought, wedding his daughter to a policeman should appall him.

She'd only seen the Inspector a handful of times, but she knew that he was not handsome, nor was he gentle or loving or any of the other qualities she yearned for in a husband. His features were sharp, his eyes frigid, his height towering. She'd once heard that the only thing he loved was the law – that his wooden heart had not the ability to care for anything besides justice – and the idea frightened Éponine. She wanted a husband she could grow to love and who could grow to love her; being forced into in a loveless marriage seemed a fate worse than death. She wanted a boy closer to her in age, a handsome young man who would take care of her, adore her, kiss the ground she walked on. She wanted a wedding with Marius as her groom – not the cold-blooded Inspector Javert – but as the minutes passed and her father did not yield, it became increasingly obvious that such a wedding would never take place.

"You can't make me do it! I-I won't!" she straightened her back, her eyes glowing hot with defiance. With all the swiftness of a cat, Thénardier crossed the room, raised his hand, and struck Éponine's cheek hard, in an attempt to bully her into submission. The people around them cringed and looked away, but did not intervene, as it wasn't uncommon for the man to strike his children when they were bold enough to challenge his authority. Éponine whimpered, shielded her face with her hands, and backed away when he began to roar at her.

"You think you get a say in the matter, you _stupid_ girl? We may be bourgeois, but we're not as well-off as some," he growled, "He's self-righteous bastard, but the Inspector's got money – lots of it. You're lucky any man would take a thing like you off our hands!"

"Papa." Gathering all her courage, she advanced towards her father and placed a hand softly on his arm. Perhaps, she thought, if she could manage to calm him, he'd reconsider, "Papa, please, _please_ don't make me marry him. H-he's as old as you are! And you hate the law-"

He spun around to face her, and when she saw the look upon his face, she knew her words had had absolutely no effect on him. He grabbed her forearm roughly, and the pressure on her wrist made her cry out in pain. Thénardier, however, ignored his daughter's protest, "I didn't raise you to be a fool. I'll hear no more about this. He comes to dinner in two days, and if you know what's good for you, girl, you'll shut your mouth and act happy!"

He released his hold on her, and Éponine sank to the floor, tears flowing like little twin rivers from her eyes. With a sneer, he turned and stormed out of the parlor, Mme. Thénardier hot on his heels as he pushed past Azelma and their servant, and disappeared up the stairs to the second story of the home.

Timidly, Azelma inched her way towards her elder sister and knelt beside her, "Ponine? Don't cry, 'Ponine. You're getting married. You should be glad-"

"Glad?" she sniffed, and then nearly laughed, "Y-you've heard about the Inspector, don't you? About how mean he is? I don't want to marry him, 'Zelma. _A-anyone_ but him."

"But you get to get away from here don't you? Away from Mama and Papa." She smiled the kind of tiny, childish smile that only an innocent could muster, but still, it did nothing to console her sister.

Éponine scoffed, set a hand on Azelma's head, and whispered almost inaudibly, "You're so naïve, 'Zelma."

"I'm not naïve!" she pouted, crossing her arms indignantly and scowling.

Having no desire to fight with her, Éponine stood, smoothed out any creases that'd appeared in the dark blue fabric of her dress, and heaved a deep, hopeless sigh. All at once, she realized who could give her the comfort she needed. _Marius._ Yes, she had to find Marius. If only she could speak to him for a short while, she wouldn't have to ponder this awful betrothal. He could take her to that magical place he always managed to take her to; their own little corner of the world that was away from Paris, away from France, away from the real world and all the horrid things in it.

Her mind made up, she made a move toward the door, and Azelma raised an eyebrow, "Where're you going?"

Éponine said nothing for a moment; instead only walking to the coatrack next to the front door and pulling her cloak around her shoulders. With a brief glance back at Azelma, she took a breath and told her, "I'm going to see Monsieur Marius."

* * *

She found him in the Luxembourg Gardens, sitting under a tree and reading a book like he always was. For a while, she only watched him from afar, fascinated by every tiny movement he made, every subtle expression that crossed his face as he turned the pages in his book. She watched the way his dark curls blew about in the autumn wind, admired the intense focus he had whilst reading. Éponine often thought him the most handsome boy she'd ever met, what with his soft eyes, his kind smiles, his melodic voice, his youthful, cherubic features. When her family had moved to Paris nearly a decade ago and she'd first become friends with Marius, they'd often met and played in the Luxembourg Gardens, spending hours running around, telling jokes, and blabbering on with the nonsensical sense that only little children could understand. Although their meetings were not nearly as numerous as they'd once been, they still came upon each other here occasionally, and always sat beneath the same old magnolia tree when speaking with one another. Now, Éponine looked back on the summers she spent in these gardens with Marius in her childhood with nothing but supreme fondness. Oh, how carefree those Halcyon Days had been! However, they were no longer children, and Éponine knew their conversations under the magnolia tree would likely come to an end after she was married, for they'd already been growing less and less frequent ever since Marius had begun to attend the university.

Éponine realized, at that moment, that she didn't want to grow up. She didn't want to become an adult when she pondered all the responsibilities womanhood and marriage would thrust upon her shoulders. She wanted to stay a child, stay with Marius; she didn't want to be wedded to Inspector Javert and have her youth stolen from her. With a small frown at those thoughts, she strolled over to where her friend rested, and sat down beside him before speaking even a single word in greeting. A little smile lit up his face when he looked her way; a kind, handsome smile that even the most heartless of people couldn't help but return.

"Hey, 'Ponine," he closed his book, sat up, and fixed his gaze on her. Her heart leapt at the use of her nickname, for it never sounded quite as endearing when anyone else besides Marius said it.

"Marius," she managed a shaky grin that, unbeknownst to her, denoted every single bit of her sorrow.

Sensing her sadness, he frowned, "Is something wrong?"

She leaned back against the tree and lowered her eyes. He could read her as easily as he read the book before him, she mused, and so she did not bother lying to him, "Papa said…Papa said he's arranged a marriage for me. And… I don't _want_ to be married!"

Her words grabbed his full attention, prompting him to set his book down beside him on the grass. He angled his body in her direction to get a better look at Éponine, "Married? To whom?"

"Inspector Javert," she bit back a sob at the thought, "He's as old as my father! And you've heard how cruel he is, haven't you? I don't want to marry him. He…he…" she exhaled all at once, determination shining in her gaze, "He can't make me marry that man! I won't do it!"

"'Ponine-" he began, but she wasn't finished.

"I'd rather _die_ than take him as my husband." She dug her fingernails into her dress, clenching her jaw as she fisted the royal blue fabric tightly within her hands.

Marius reached out and rested a soothing hand upon her shoulder. She relaxed at his touch, "Come on. Don't say things like that, 'Ponine."

"Why not? It's true," she sniffed, wiped a tear from her eye, and then looked to Marius, "I-I'd rather marry you, you know. We could elope to Calais…ride off into the sunset. How lovely that'd be…"

Though her words were not intended to be merely a jest, he chuckled, "You tease me so. I'm certain your father would have my head for doing such a thing." He smiled in an attempt to comfort her, "I'm sorry you don't find your future husband to your liking. But…I wish you every happiness in your marriage, mademoiselle."

"Happiness," she huffed, "Happiness is a cheap word when you've been… promised to a man you _hate_."

There was silence for a moment, as her words loomed over their heads like a dark storm cloud. After a second, Marius inched closer to her, "You know…you've never even met him, 'Ponine. You can't hate someone until you get to know them."

She was thoroughly shocked by his words, "You think I should marry him? Y-you think I should just…give in so easily?"

"I think…" he paused for a moment, "I think you should do what your father wants, Éponine."

Any hope she'd had for his consolation was devastated when he spoke those words. She shook her head, "How can you say that? You know what kind of man the Inspector is! You know how heartless – how _cold_ – he is! Why should I just…accept misery?"

"You know going against your father is only going to bring about bad things. He's the kind of man who stops at nothing to get what he wants."

"I-I will hate my life if I am forced to live with him as my husband. I _swear _I will…" Éponine's words were cut off when, before she could stop herself, she dissolved into a fit of tears. She clasped a hand over her mouth to muffle her sobs, but her shoulders still shook and her fingers did not stop trembling. At that moment, the true gravity of this betrothal sank in. She would be married. She would be married to _Inspector Javert_. She felt trapped, imprisoned by this engagement. There was no way out, and if she refused to marry him, her parents would likely disown her, throw her onto the streets with the rats. Either way, she would suffer a horrible fate.

She would lose no matter what.

Marius moved closer yet, placing a hand on her arm with a frown, "Don't be sad, Éponine. Please… don't cry. You'll be married. You'll be…happy."

His words only forced more sadness from her eyes. She knew without a doubt that she wouldn't be happy, and Éponine was certain he did, too. He was a poor liar, and as such, she could see right through every falsehood he spoke, for his words held little to no conviction. It only served as further proof to her that he didn't return her feelings. If he loved her like she loved him, he would do everything in his power to stop her marriage to another man, but he wasn't. He'd encouraged her to comply with her father's wishes. He didn't love her. Her heart nearly ceased to beat at the realization. He didn't love her. After an excruciating moment of wallowing in her heartbreak, she managed to, somehow, block up her sorrow, and, before she could exhibit any further emotion before him, she got to her feet. He stood as well, a hand placed lightly behind her back as though she would lose her footing and tumble over backwards. His eyes never left hers, and his persistent gaze was worse than torment for Éponine. She wished he would look away, wished he would give her a reason to not love him so. She wished he wouldn't unknowingly torture her with false hope that he could ever feel the same way she did. Every touch, every glance, every word of comfort was like a spear in her heart, piercing it further and further until it could no longer love, no longer function.

"I-I ought to be on my way home now, monsieur. Thank you for your counsel; I shall… take it into consideration," she said lowly, her eyes craftily evading his. Marius sighed, knowing well that, when Éponine addressed him by his title, she certainly not happy with him.

Still, he did not try to stop her as she began to walk in the other direction, instead only nodding and muttering, "Farewell, mademoiselle."

* * *

**()**

* * *

"Y-you know that…that _thing _married people do, 'Ponine?"

As soon as the words left her little sister's mouth and drifted to her ears, Éponine's face reddened considerably, and her palms broke out into a sweat. Both girls were seated in Éponine's rather stuffy bedroom, and had been chatting idly about nothing when the older girl found the aforementioned question posed to her. Éponine had, of course, thought about it in the past, but now that she was betrothed, the idea of sleeping with a man seemed so real, so close; not like a far-off, misty notion in the distance as it always had been.

Unaware that her sister had contemplated such a thing as well, she stared at her in shock, "Y-you…you're too young to think about things like that, 'Zelma."

"Haven't _you_ thought about it though? You'll have to…" she let out a small giggle, "lie with the Inspector, you know. It's what husbands and wives do."

Éponine's cheeks grew pinker still, and her eyes began to water with embarrassment, "I-I…I don't want to think about it – and you shouldn't either! You're supposed to be thinking about…about anything but _that_!"

A mischievous smile blossomed on Azelma's face. She'd always enjoyed teasing Éponine to get a reaction out of her, and today was no exception, "I wonder what he'd be like in bed. You think he likes to be bitten? Scratched? Hopefully he doesn't want to bite or scratch you, though. That wouldn't be fun."

"Azelma…please…_please_ stop," she closed her eyes, put her head in her hands, and took a deep breath. She didn't want to discuss what would happen on her wedding night with anyone – and certainly not her little sister.

The other girl snickered, undeterred by her sister's imploration, "I bet he's probably rough. He is a cop, after all. He's a big man, too, isn't he? Don't know how you'll be able to breathe underneath him-"

"_Stop it_!" Éponine cried loudly, and Azelma flinched, her mouth snapping shut in an instant when she heard the brokenness in her tone. She cocked her head to one side, confused at Éponine's atypical lack of a sense of humor. Most of the times she taunted her, Éponine would play along – or at least laugh – and Azelma was bewildered when she learnt that would not be the case today.

"I…I-I was just kidding, 'Ponine. I didn't mean to upset you…" Azelma bit her lip and guiltily lowered her eyes. Éponine sighed and took her hand gently.

"I-it wasn't you. It's just…" she swallowed, locked eyes with her younger sister, and then finally admitted, "I'm scared. Scared of…what'll happen. I mean, I don't know _anything_ about w-what you do when you lie with someone."

Azelma thought for a moment, then told her, "You know Elise, who lives down the street? She told me…" Azelma stopped talking all of a sudden, as though abruptly realizing that her words might trouble Éponine further.

However, she urged her to keep going, "What? What'd she tell you?"

"She told me that…that the first time really hurts, but that it's not as bad after that. So you shouldn't be afraid, Éponine. It can't be that terrible."

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Éponine sighed, and then asked, "Did you mean it? W-when you said you think he'll be rough?"

"No!" she shook her head and squeezed her sister's hand tightly, "No, I-I was only kidding, 'Ponine."

Not at all consoled by her words, she let out a shaky breath, turning away from her and pulling her knees to her chest, "I just…I don't want it to hurt."

"Éponine…" Azelma moved closer to her sister and rested her head against her shoulder. She couldn't recall the last time she'd seen Éponine so upset, and it upset Azelma a little herself, "I'm sorry."

She smiled sadly, "Don't be. But I-I'm scared, all right?" Azelma could feel her sister trembling, and it scared her even more, "You know what can happen when a man and a woman…s-sleep together."

"Is that what you're afraid of? Getting with child?" Éponine bit her lip, turned her head to look at Azelma, and then nodded. The younger girl began to stroke her sister's hair with one hand, for she knew it generally comforted her when she was nervous, "Maybe the Inspector won't want any children."

She nearly laughed, "Why would he take a wife then? No…" she sighed, "He will. And I…I likely won't get a say in the matter."

There was another pause. Azelma stopped brushing her hair with her hand and moved in front of Éponine so she could look her in the eyes, "I think you'll be a good mother, 'Ponine. Better than Mama, anyway."

"Thanks," Éponine turned toward her sister and cupped one of her cheeks in her hand, "I'm going to miss you, sis."

With a tiny, mournful grin, Azelma confessed, "I'll miss you, too," before their servant appeared in the doorway to summon them for dinner.

* * *

When Éponine needed to clear her head, she'd often take long walks in the streets amongst the poor, observing every passerby she saw with silent fascination. Perhaps others would've found more comfort in strolling down by the Seine or in a park, but she found great solace in watching people, in making up stories for every person whose eyes she met on her walks. An elderly man walking with a cane had recently been widowed and was caught up in so great a sorrow that no one knew any way to console him. A young man and a woman were newlyweds who were unhappy in their marriage, for the man took many a mistress to his bed, and the woman's heart belonged to a poor boy her father wouldn't allow her to marry. A prostitute who might've once been beautiful had been forced into selling herself when her drunkard of a husband could no longer support her and their children. Out in the streets, her imagination knew no boundaries. Her mind took flight. She could wander for hours at a time, but, remarkably, she never found herself lost in the endless maze that was the roads of Paris. Somehow, no matter how long or how far she'd wandered, her internal compass always led her back home. God never failed to take control of her feet and guide her back to where she belonged, like a shepherd bringing a lost sheep back to its flock every time it wandered astray.

It was sundown on the day before the Inspector was to come to dinner, and Éponine knew she would soon have to return home, for night was fast approaching and sweeping Paris up in its black clutches. For fear of being jumped or assaulted on the streets, she quickened her pace when she heard the patter of footsteps behind her, not bothering to slow down and look back at whoever was following her. Her heart beat faster and faster, as she knew a young bourgeois woman like her was a perfect target to be mugged – or even worse, raped. A minute passed, and she began to run when the footsteps failed to go away, but when the person who was trailing her spoke, she froze immediately, her feet grinding to a halt.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Éponine." She could hear the smirk in his tone, and her breath caught in her throat, "Or should I say…the future Madame Javert?"

Though his low voice sent shivers down her back, she did not turn at first; instead acknowledging him with only a tense, "'Parnasse."

When the footsteps grew closer, a smooth, freezing cold hand slowly encircled hers, and she found herself being tugged into a nearby alleyway. It did not faze her, for it was what Montparnasse always did whenever he wanted to speak with her alone, and though she usually did, Éponine did not fight him. Since her father was the leader of the street gang 'Parnasse was in, and since she was technically of a higher caste than he was, they'd never been lovers, but had always maintained a flirtation that, on Montparnasse's part, was far from innocent. She knew he'd lusted after for her for years, but had never let him have his way with her. To Éponine, 'Parnasse embodied all that was forbidden, all that was dangerous and off-limits. Still, the vagabond was impossibly enticing, and now that she was engaged, he seemed even more so. When the pair disappeared into the alley, they were cloaked by the night, the moonlight their only way of seeing one another properly. Gently, he pressed her against the wall, and the closeness of their bodies made Éponine weak in a way she'd never felt before. Though she knew not why, her breathing became labored, and when 'Parnasse felt this sudden shift in her, he smirked. She'd never melted so quickly into his hands, and the unexpected control he had over Éponine ignited a fire in his loins. She'd always been so stubborn, so unwilling to let him close to her, and for a moment, he only marveled at how easily she'd given in.

But he did not marvel long. He was a man of action; not a man of contemplation.

"Happy to see me, are we?" he murmured, seconds before he moved his mouth to her neck and began to suckle her flesh, licking, biting, flicking at her with his tongue and eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Éponine. She placed a hand behind his head as he kissed her and buried her fingers in his dark curls. He smirked against her cream-colored skin, immensely pleased, for she seldom ever let him this near her, "I heard about your betrothal."

"He is…a-as old as my father," she stammered breathlessly, the feeling of his tongue against her skin more intoxicating than she'd care to admit. His lips moved up to her face, then, and before she could say another word, he captured her mouth with his, choking off any words she could've said. She had no time to react – no time to pull away – but even if she had, Éponine wasn't sure she wanted to. Some bizarre, alien feeling had come over her. She didn't know what it was, but something had grabbed hold of her mind, and though she hated crumbling like clay in 'Parnasse's fingers, she couldn't stop herself. He tasted like bitter wormwood, she noticed; like forbidden fruit, and she adored it so much so that she found herself trying to absorb as much of the flavor as she could.

He broke away then, and looked at her from head to toe, a groan coming forth from his throat as he looked at her pale, milky skin in the starlight. Her dark purple dress exposed more of her chest than her clothes usually did, and it filled him to the brim with desire. His felt himself grow harder as he pondered what it would be like to see her body freed from the confines of all clothing, how it would feel to cup those magnificent breasts in his hands, to pinch them, kiss them, to do as he pleased with her. With lust blackening his eyes, he rasped, "That displeases you?"

Though she had a hundred reasons to be displeased with the match, she held them inside and her lips parted with only one word, "_Yes_."

'Parnasse could tell she wanted more, for he could read a woman's body with ease, and in that second, he could hardly believe his luck. So long had Éponine represented everything he could never get, a chase that would never end, one of the few women who wouldn't yield to his advances, but now, she'd practically fallen into his arms. A devious smirk crept on to his face. To explore every inch of her body, to her that mouth of hers scream his name…A deep, guttural growl bubbled up in the back of his throat at the thought. What'd he long waited for was being given to him. Still, he had more honor than to take her in a filthy alleyway with the rats, and so he brought his mouth mere inches from her ear and breathed, "Then let me please you."

He grabbed her hand once more and pulled her back out into the streets, where he took off running. She frowned, her pace quickening to match his long stride, and she called out to him, "Where are we going?"

Although he failed to answer her, she didn't yank her hand out of his grasp or try to get away. Éponine couldn't understand what'd overcome her, but at that moment, she wanted so very desperately to do something she wasn't supposed to. For most of her life, she'd followed the rules without protest, yet now, the urge to rebel was overwhelming. She wanted to do something very bad, something wrong, something that, perhaps, she would regret later. So when 'Parnasse led her to his dirty little flat, she did nothing to combat his advances. Instead, she followed him inside eagerly, and the moment the door shut behind them, let him wrap his arms around her and lay siege to her lips once more, let his kiss steal the words right out of her mouth, let his hands grope her chest with abandon. They continued on like that for a few minutes, their tongues dancing around one another as they felt their desire climb to greater heights, their mouths hopelessly entangled, their bodies pressed so tightly against one another's that both could almost anticipate every move the other would make. To Éponine's surprise, he pulled away before she did, taking her hand, leading her over to his little hearth, and beckoning her to sit as he lit a fire. The young flame crackled and popped, swaying weakly for a while as though it might die, but after a moment, its arms crept onto a nearby log and ignited it as well. After that victory, the fire grew bit by bit, and then, it roared strong, healthily.

Satisfied that the fire had taken well, Montparnasse moved behind Éponine, wrapped his arms around her waist, and trailed a chain of kiss along her the exposed skin of shoulder. She shivered at the feeling, and sweat began to bead on her forehead, though she knew not if it was from the fire or from the feeling of his tender, attentive mouth upon her skin.

He laughed when he felt her tremble, "Does this…please you, mademoiselle?"

"Yes…" she pressed her eyes closed and hissed.

Though his next words were caustic, they were spoken tenderly, as though they were sweet nothings, "I hate to think of you in the arms of that bastard Inspector. It's a pity, really. Marrying a beauty like you off to a rat like him."

Éponine gasped when she felt his hand begin to inch its way up her dress, pushing past her petticoats and all her other undergarments. She stiffened, and fidgeted when she felt him brush her inner thigh, "No. N-no, 'Parnasse, we can't-"

"Relax," he whispered, and for some reason, she did, "I'll leave you a virgin for your wedding night. But let's have some fun while we're here, shall we?"

His hand continued to grow closer and closer to the tender area between her legs, and she discovered herself nearly panting in anticipation of his touch. When he finally reached his destination, he took one finger and lightly caressed her clit with it, bringing a whimper forth from her mouth and causing her head lull back against his shoulder, her dark hair spilling across his chest. He continued to rub back and forth gently, with a skill that came from pleasuring many women, and Éponine found herself moaning freely, in a rather unladylike manner.

"'P-Parnasse, stop…" she protested weakly, trying to block out the sensations but finding she was unable to. She knew very well shouldn't be doing this. Papa would have her head for acting like a common whore and sleeping with one of the Patron-Minette, but, she realized, she was too far gone to stop now. She couldn'tstop now, even if she wanted to.

"Is that really what you want, 'Ponine?" his voice was low, every movement of his fingers forbidden heaven for Éponine. His breath was hot on her ear when he spoke, "Me to stop? Tell me what you really want. What do you really…_really_ want?"

She bit her lip and mewled as his fingers continued to work their way expertly in between her thighs, touching all the right areas and driving her mad, "D-d-don't…"

"Don't what?" For a short moment he rubbed her harder, and she cried out at the sudden spike of sensation. One of her hands grabbed onto 'Parnasse's shoulder as tight as it could, her knuckles whitening.

"Don't… stop," she finally managed, entirely forgetting herself and allowing her desires to take control of her mind. Her common sense and every other thing that told her this was wrong abandoned her and left her to become his puppet, his to do what he would with her. This kind of overpowering arousal was foreign to Éponine. She'd never touched herself before, had never given herself this kind of pleasure, but she decided that the moisture in between her legs was heavenly, every movement of his fingers pure bliss. If this was what lying with someone was, she didn't see how it was at all painful or unpleasant.

"Are you enjoying yourself, 'Ponine?"

She arched her back when he dipped a finger into her opening and traced the wetness back up to her bud, circling it, caressing it, massaging it fast yet maintaining remarkable gentleness, "_Y-yes_. Oh God, yes."

Montparnasse smirked again, pleased to have Éponine where he'd wanted her for so long. Without ceasing the movement of his fingers in her nether regions, he loosened the strings that held the top half of her dress to her body, and eased his hand slowly into her bodice. He cupped one of her breasts with an almost childlike fascination, and then took one of her nipples in between his fingers. Pleased to find it hardened with longing, he began to knead that as well, twisting, turning, working the two spots on Éponine that he knew could make any girl dissolve into an incoherent mess of desire. His rhythm on both areas steady – slow enough to keep her on her toes, but fast enough to keep her stimulated – he placed his lips upon her shoulder, suckling her skin once more as though it was the most delectable honey in the word. At his kiss, he could feel her lean back into him even more, could feel her breathing turn into a series of gasps, and he laughed to himself. He liked virgins. Because they were inexperienced, they had absolutely no expectations, and even the tiniest bit of pleasure could bring their modesty and inhibitions crumbling into pieces.

He slowed his ministrations on her clit to taunt her, and she moaned in irritation, "'Parnasse…"

He groaned in return, and, upon hearing his name so urgently whimpered, felt his member harden within the restraints of his trousers. He longed so very much to plunge inside her, to explore every inch of her womanhood, to give her pleasure like she wouldn't believe, but he knew that things wouldn't go well for him if the leader of Patron-Minette discovered he'd taken his daughter's virginity when she was soon to be wed, "Yes, 'Ponine?"

He slowed nearly to a stop on both areas, and she writhed as though she was in actual pain, her lower half searching for his fingers frantically but failing to find them, "'_Parnasse_."

"You still haven't told me what you want, sweetheart." Though she couldn't see, his eyes were twinkling, his mouth inching upward in a wicked grin.

Éponine clenched her jaw and tightened her hold on his shoulder. If she'd been able, she would've slapped him, "M-m…more."

He brought his finger closer to her clit once more, feeling it twitch in anticipation before he moved away again, "Come now. Say the magic word."

"Damn you 'Parnasse," she snarled, arching her back once more and then moaning as she felt her body pulse inexorably with need. He laughed. He respected her feistiness, and so in return, he moved his fingers back to both their pleasure points, resuming his masterful caresses. Her breathing picked up once more, her ululations and whimpers growing increasingly frequent, and he realized just how close she was, and how much the pause must've vexed her. He could feel the humidity in between her legs; he could feel the wetness dripping out of her, the undeniable sign that she wanted him, and he loved it. _She_ wanted _him. _For so long, he'd been the one wanting her, but now, she wanted him. Now, sheneeded him, to finish her off, to bring her to her climax, and when his mind came upon these thoughts, he felt himself growing stiffer yet. His manhood throbbed with need; the need to be inside of her, to feel her walls convulse around him, to feel his seed explode within her, and the idea that nothing of the sort would happen tonight was torture for Montparnasse. A frustrated growl erupted from his throat before he could stifle it.

He sped up, rubbing the area between her legs faster, harder. His name fell from her lips over and over again, and though she tried, she found that she couldn't stop it, "'Parnasse. 'Parnasse. 'Parnasse…'Parnasse!"

He grunted when his groin grew impossibly hard, his arousal aching and unbearable. It was beyond tempting not to drop his trousers and take her right now, but he knew doing so would be an act of extreme imprudence. Still, there was something about the way she said his name that turned Montparnasse into an animal, ruled by only the most primal of instincts. But he did nothing; instead only continuing to stroke her bud and pinch her nipple and suck on her skin, savoring the taste of her and finding pleasure when the desire between her legs soaked his fingers. With a high pitched half-scream, Éponine climaxed at last, her hips bucking upward, her entire body tensing up and then suddenly relaxing against him. Her head fell back on his shoulder once more as she cried out, a torrent of ecstasy swelling between her legs and then shooting out into every part of her body like lightning. He continued to massage her clit until the waves of her orgasm had passed and she had caught her breath once more, and only then did he dare to stop. They remained like that for a short while in near silence, the only sound to be heard in the room her labored breathing as she calmed herself. When he caught a glimpse of Éponine as she lay against his shoulder, her eyes shut, her face peaceful, her muscles slack from the immense release, Montparnasse took his hand and ran it along her jawline, beholding her beauty without a word. With a tired sigh, her large brown eyes fluttered open to look at him, and for a brief instant, they forgot themselves, caught up in a moment of post-coital bliss as they were. She failed to remember who he was, and who she was, and for a moment, they were only two people: not Éponine and Montparnasse, but merely a young man and a young woman. Though she would never admit it to him, Éponine longed to remain like this forever, to remain merely a person and not have to return to the cruel real world.

"You're so beautiful, 'Ponine," he brushed a wayward strand of hair from in front of her eyes. For the first time, his words were honest, and not meant to seduce her in any way, "You deserve a better man than you've been promised to."

Her eyelids drooping as though seconds from sleep, she muttered, "A man like you, 'Parnasse?"

He grinned, "Yes. A man like me, mademoiselle."

All at once, Éponine seemed to realize what they'd just done, and so she stood up with haste, a choked sound of panic escaping her throat when her breasts spilled forth from her untied dress. Struggling to fix her clothing and trying to ignore Montparnasse's poorly concealed laughter, she advanced toward the door. "I-I have to go. I shouldn't have come here. We…we shouldn't have done this."

"'Ponine-" he got to his feet as well and walked over to her. He reached out a hand to her, but she flinched and took a step backward.

She gulped, and then raised her chin, her tone firm, commanding, "This was a one-time thing. A mistake. It…it won't happen again."

Éponine pulled the door open, but just as she began to leave, his hands took hold of her waist gently from behind, and her lips brushed her cheek once more. Though it was tempting, she did not fall back into his arms.

"You can tell yourself that, 'Ponine, but after what I just did to you…" he chuckled, and she tried not to shudder, "You'll be back." She huffed, folded her arms, stormed out the door, and slammed it behind her before he could say another word. After she was gone, he laughed once more, though the sound was strained, for he was finding it tremendously difficult to ignore the hardness that persisted in his trousers, "You'll be back."

* * *

**()**

* * *

The Inspector was to come to dinner tonight.

Éponine waited in her bedroom all morning and afternoon, dread festering heavily in her stomach like a rock. She tried to occupy her thoughts with other things, picking up a book and trying to work on her embroidery on several occasions, but her attempts were largely ineffective. Occasionally, she let her mind wander back to last night with 'Parnasse, and when she felt a sudden throbbing between her legs – felt his hands caressing her in all the right places, felt him touch the secret area no one had ever gone before – she fidgeted and shook the thoughts from her mind. She was to be married, and although she did not care for her fiancé, she wouldn't dare be unfaithful to him. She'd heard rumors about Javert's volatile temper, and she decided that she didn't want to risk any harm coming her way. She would forget, Éponine decided. She would forget Marius and Montparnasse. The only way she'd be able to find even the slightest bit of contentment in her marriage was if she snuffed out any and all old flames from her past.

At half past six in the evening, there was a light knock on her door. Lying on her bed and teetering on brink of slumber as she was, the sound startled her, but she jerked awake quickly and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Her heart sped up. She knew what this was. She knew it was time.

She gulped before she could stop herself, bowed her head, murmured a quick prayer for God to give her strength, and then called, "Come in!"

Her family's servant, a middle aged, portly woman who went by the name of Odette, stepped inside, her hands folded, her eyes lowered as though she knew what she had to say would upset Éponine, "Mademoiselle… the Inspector is here. You are to come down and be presented to him."

"Presented to him," she hissed under her breath, "Like I am _cattle_ to be bought and sold."

"Mademoiselle?" The older woman raised an eyebrow, just barely catching onto her mistress's words.

"Tell him I'll be down in a moment," she said without looking at her. Her lips perked upward into a smirk as she got up and ran a brush through her smooth, dark hair, "After all, I have to look my best for my betrothed, don't I?"

With a fond rolling of her eyes, Odette sighed, nodded, and then exited the room, shutting the door quietly behind her and descending the stairs.

Once she was gone, Éponine began to panic in earnest. Her palms and forehead started to sweat. She paced back and forth in her little, windowless bedroom, rubbing her hands together, frantically adjusting her dress although there were few creases or imperfections in the thick, red fabric. She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to meet this man, for she knew she'd be only an object to him, a mere vessel to bear his children, and she despised the idea of being reduced to such a thing. She was smart, and just as intelligent as any man. Oh, ever since she was a child, she'd longed to attend the university, to obtain a higher education, but she always knew at the same time that her father would never dream of allowing it. He deemed women good for one thing and one thing only: to marry. All she'd ever be, Éponine mused sorrowfully, was a wife and a mother – not a great thinker or a writer or a philosopher. She bit her lip, and slowly advanced toward the door. As she pulled it open, she took a deep, cleansing breath of courage, inhaling the smell of her room as though she might forget it upon leaving. She'd have to do this, and she would. Even if she never became a great thinker, she could at least pride herself in knowing that she was a girl who feared nothing. This man wouldn't intimidate her. She could do this. She could marry him.

This impending marriage would not break her spirit. Nothing would.

Éponine descended the stairs slowly, so as to not make a sound and alert the people below that she was approaching. She wanted to appear all at once without warning, even though she knew it'd be of little consequence to anyone. When she stepped into the foyer, she found both of her parents, Odette, and Azelma lingering near the stairwell, making idle chatter with the man standing by the door who, Éponine realized, was Inspector Javert.

Her blood ran cold, but she moved forward toward the group of people nonetheless, her hands folded as she forced a pleasant, simpering expression onto her face.

"Ah, there she is!" her father placed a hand behind her back with feigned joy alight in his eyes, "Darling Éponine. You look so very pretty tonight, my girl." Purposefully yet gently, he nudged her toward Javert, and Éponine gulped, "This, dear 'Ponine, is Inspector Javert. Your future husband."

She dropped into a little curtsey out of habit, but when she finally brought her eyes up to meet his, for a second, she swore her heart failed to pump blood through her veins. The man before her was tall – at least a head taller than she was – and Éponine was taken aback at how much he towered over her. He wasn't a handsome man, Éponine decided as she took in his rough features. Every line on his face was hard, his bone structure sharp and severe, his nose large and crooked. His posture, however, was as flawless as a guard in a royal palace, what with his hands tucked behind his back, his broad shoulders squared, his feet spread sturdily on the ground like the base of a statue. His hair was dark brown, but patches of grey had sprung up a little around his temples like weeds and clearly announced to the world that he was no longer a young man. His complexion was dark – darker than most anyone Éponine had ever seen – and for a little while, she pondered his heritage. He was clad in his uniform as was the norm for him, and she wondered fleetingly if he even possessed any other clothes.

He seemed to notice how closely she was scrutinizing him at that moment, so, disconcerted by this, he bowed his head slightly and acknowledged her, "Mademoiselle."

She extended her hand to him, and he took it, pressing his lips on her knuckles briefly before letting it fall to her side. Shocked by the tenderness of his warm kiss on her icy skin, Éponine said nothing for a moment, causing her mother and father to throw her irritated sideways glances. Nonetheless, she eventually managed to remember how to greet him in return, although her voice was quiet, atypically shy, "Monsieur."

There was silence for a minute – the most uncomfortable and tense she'd ever been subjected to – until Mme. Thénardier cleared her throat and suggested, "Well, Odette, we can't let the dinner you've cooked grow cold. Let us go and eat, shall we?"

The Inspector nodded and followed everyone into the dining room, taking a seat without a word and folding his napkin in his lap. Éponine did the same, but sat beside Azelma and made a point to be as far away from Javert as possible. Odette proceeded to serve the first course of their dinner with haste: a bitter tasting, thin soup that Éponine wasn't particularly fond of, and of which she ate little. The occupants of the table ate for a few moments in silence, and then Monsieur Thénardier spoke up.

"Inspector, you must forgive me for bringing this up so quickly, but… I do believe we haven't yet determined what Éponine's dowry should be. And, well…I should like to know how great the, uh, _dent_ in my assets will be."

Éponine rolled her eyes and forced another spoonful of the tasteless soup into her mouth in the hopes that, if she wasn't able to speak, everyone at the table would simply forget her presence altogether. It failed to surprise her that the first thing her father would bring up was an issue regarding money, and inside, she laughed to herself.

Javert looked to her father, swallowed a mouthful of his soup, and then informed him steadily, "No dowry will be necessary, monsieur. Your daughter will always be well provided for under my care."

"Well, may our Lord bless you Inspector!" he laughed and clapped his hands several times, "Such a generous soul you are. A generous soul indeed. I'm sure my Éponine will make you the happiest of men." Éponine cringed when she heard this, and her father noticed her display unhappiness. He frowned in disapproval, "'Ponine, why don't you tell Inspector Javert about yourself? I'm sure he'd…_love_ to hear about his bride to be."

Javert's gaze moved to Éponine, then, and she squirmed, "I-I…w-well…I-I enjoy reading a lot. And writing poetry a little…although…I admit it isn't very good." Her mother nudged her roughly underneath the table with her foot as though ordering her to list the skills that would make him think her the perfect wife. Éponine winced, but complied, "I can cook somewhat well, monsieur. And sew…and embroider."

Mme. Thénardier placed a rough hand on her shoulder, "Yes, Inspector, my girl will make a fine bride for you. You wouldn't find a better wife in the whole of Paris."

"If you, uh…don't mind my asking, how well do your coffers fair, monsieur? Of course, I ask only because I cannot _bear_ the thought of my angel living under rough conditions if some… misfortune befalls you," Thénardier asked, eliciting a small smirk from the Inspector that lead Éponine to believe that he, too, understood her father's constant and insatiable hunger for wealth.

"Monsieur, I assure you that my savings is plentiful, and my residence comfortable. The mademoiselle will want for nothing, and I will ensure she never has to live under rough conditions," he told him shortly, the clipped, authoritative tone in his voice effectively ending the discussion.

There was a pause, and then Thénardier spoke up again, "Now, don't be fooled by her scrawny figure, Inspector. If you want, I'm sure my girl can bear you… a hundred sons! And a hundred daughters as well!"

Her cheeks reddening, Éponine found she could no longer endure her father's idiocy in silence, "Papa!"

"I promise you, Monsieur Thénardier, that I do not desire a hundred sons and daughters," he glanced briefly at Éponine, and she took strange comfort in his eyes. Though he wasn't smiling, he seemed to find the whole situation very amusing, "One or two will be more than sufficient."

Éponine bit her lip and stared forlornly down into her soup, her appetite suddenly nonexistent at the mention of children. Sensing this, Azelma took her hand underneath the table, and she looked at her sister with a tiny, grateful smile, even if the gesture did not make her feel much better.

This time, it was Mme. Thénardier who addressed the Inspector, "Have you a date for the wedding in mind, monsieur?"

Javert thought for a moment, and then told them, "Before spring comes, preferably. I find that once the cold months pass, criminals attack with… renewed fervor, like animals awakening after hibernation."

Monsieur and Madame Thénardier broke into loud, uproarious, badly faked laughter at that, and Éponine resisted the urge to bury her head in her hands. In that instant, she wanted nothing more than to fade into the walls, to cease to exist. Javert gave her a glance that she interpreted as something akin to pity, but she looked away almost as quickly as their eyes met. Her parents calmed themselves after a moment, and Mme. Thénardier wiped a tear from her eye, "What a sense of humor you have, Inspector! Oh my! Am I right, husband?"

"Yes! Indeed! Splendid!"

Éponine squeezed her eyes closed. She couldn't fathom why her parents were acting like total fools – even more so than they usually did. Was it because they were afraid the Inspector wouldn't like her and refuse to take her off their hands? Or did they think he intended to endow them with some kind of monetary reward for giving him a wife? She couldn't be sure, but by some divine miracle, she managed to survive the remainder of dinner with them, withstanding their embarrassing inquires and bad jokes as best she could. When supper was finished, however, and her parents were full of wine and food, they excused themselves to go to the sitting room, dragging Azelma along with them and leaving Éponine and Javert alone.

It was the last thing on earth she wanted.

Once her parents and sister were gone, the Inspector stood, walked over to the chair directly across from her, and took a seat in it, his hands folded on the table before him. For what seemed to Éponine to be the longest minute in the world, he analyzed her closely in the same way she'd done to him before. He looked at her face first, took in her attractive, warm features, and especially took note of her intelligent brown eyes. He observed her thick, dark hair that tumbled down just past her shoulders, and noted how it shone ever so faintly in the dim candlelight. Though he knew it was improper, his eyes moved to look at the swell of her breasts as well, small yet pleasingly round at the same time. He recalled the curve of her thin waist from the first time he'd seen her in the foyer, and then stared for a while at her slim, pale neck. Over all, he thought, she was not unpleasant to look at, and she seemed polite and docile enough. She'd make as good a wife as any, he supposed. She was young – and, according to her father, extraordinarily capable of bearing him children.

After the Inspector had finished looking at her, he mused aloud, "You are unhappy." She looked down, ripping her dark eyes from his, and said nothing. He continued with a scowl, "You do not want to marry me."

"Monsieur, I-I…I said nothing of the sort," she stuttered clumsily, knowing full well her parents would kill her for speaking the truth. He shook his head. With his extensive experience as a law enforcer, he could tell without a doubt when someone was speaking a falsehood to him.

"You did not have to, mademoiselle. If you aspire to act, I strongly suggest you find another hobby. You're not very good at it."

She was baffled at his words for a moment, unsure of how to respond to his dry, dark sense of humor and uncertain if she should take offense, "I-I…I-"

"Fear not," he cut her off, his voice flat and monotone, "I've found that a great many people do not like me, and I don't blame you for failing to think any differently. But since we are to be married, I do hope, mademoiselle," he reached across the table and tilted her chin up so their gazes could meet at least, "that you might one day learn to tolerate me."

Before she could even blink, he got to his feet, displaying his full, intimidating height, and walked over to the other side of the table, where she stood as well. Stunned by his sudden movement, she found herself only able to stare at him dumbly as he towered over her, her heart pounding, her eyes struggling to see his expression in the meager light. Once more, he placed his hand underneath her chin and encouraged it upward gently, moving his face startlingly close to hers and placing a firm hand on her waist. They remained like that for a moment, in near silence, with only faint sounds of her parents' laughter drifting to their ears from the sitting room, until he maneuvered his lips nearer yet to Éponine's, then took a moment to plan his next action. She could feel his breath on her cheek, could smell his scent – which, in truth, smelled bland, almost like nothing – but she was given no more time to think, for he placed his mouth upon hers within seconds, one of his hands still holding her chin up and the other holding her tightly against his body. At first, she froze, every muscle in her body going rigid in surprise. She let out an involuntary squeak, but after a moment, she closed her eyes, curious to explore his kiss even if she hadn't wanted it. It was tender, gentle, and not rough like she would've thought it would be. With his reputation and line of work, Éponine had assumed he would take little care with her, and she was astonished to find that she was wrong. Her hands hung uselessly at her sides, and her mouth was unresponsive against his, mostly unsure of what to do as she was. 'Parnasse had kissed her before, she figured, but it was hardly ever on her lips and always on her neck or her collarbone, in a lame attempt to seduce her.

The Inspector's kiss was different. His was the kiss of a man; not of a boy.

He released his hold on her after only a short moment, and she found herself nearly gasping for air once their mouths were parted. The Inspector waited not even a moment to speak once more, "Goodbye, mademoiselle."

She watched him in silence as he walked out of the dining room, paused briefly outside the sitting room to bid her parents farewell, and ventured finally toward the door, which he opened slowly. However, he turned, then, and through the black clutches of the night, his eyes found hers once more, locking onto them firmly before relinquishing their grasp when he turned and left the home. Her legs trembling and the feeling of his kiss still burning like fire on her lips, she fell back into a chair, suddenly too tired to move even an inch or climb the stairs to her bedroom. She licked two of her fingers and touched them to the candle on the center of the table, putting out the only source of light in the room. Once all the illumination had been drained from the room, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, the sound of her name on his lips echoing without relent in her mind.

* * *

**()**

* * *

A month passed by in what seemed like hardly any time at all. Paris crept away from fall and stumbled down into a deep, unforgiving winter. The leaves on the trees that had been previously weakened and wilted from autumn finally crumpled and blew away. Temperatures dropped further day by day, until it was no longer pleasant to walk in the Luxembourg Gardens – or any other park, for that matter. A thin layer of snow that gradually became thicker and thicker bloomed on the ground like a wintry flower.

Before Éponine knew it, the tenth of December – her wedding day – dawned.

An hour before sunrise that morning, Azelma snuck quietly into her older sister's room and crawled into the bed, knowing full well she'd have little time to converse with Éponine as the day went on. She expected to find her deep in slumber, but was shocked to see that she was wide awake, her eyes staring unblinkingly at the ceiling and her hands clutching the blankets tightly around her as though someone would take them from her and subject her to the chilly winter air. Though the girl was mere feet from her, Éponine didn't acknowledge her presence in any way, her mind wandering in a world light years from reality as it was.

Azelma frowned a little and nudged her, "'Ponine?"

Finally, Éponine turned her head to look at her sister. An exhausted smile crossed her face, "Hey, 'Zelma."

"You look…tired."

"Couldn't sleep," she sat up, yawned, and stretched her arms out, "I was up all night."

"What were you doing?"

She sighed, "Thinking, mostly."

"About…today?"

She propped her pillows up underneath herself and folded her arms with a nod, "They say a girl's wedding day should be the happiest of her life." She scoffed, "I feel like I'm going to my own funeral."

Azelma rested her head lightly on her sister's shoulder, "Maybe he'll make you happy. You never know."

"Don't be a fool. You've seen him, 'Zelma," she let out a chuckle, "He's far too unhappy himself to ever make anyone else happy." She paused, then confessed something to her that she'd previously kept only to herself, "He kissed me, the night he came to dinner."

"Really? What did it feel like? Was it… unpleasant? Rough?"

"It wasn't rough, or unpleasant, but it felt…" she took a breath, "It felt distant, cold. And like nothing. H-he tasted like… _nothing_."

"Nothing? I wonder how he managed that. I remember the soup Odette served us that night tasting worse than the backside of a horse." When only the tiniest hint of a smile worked its way onto her sister's lips, Azelma cocked her head to one side, "You should laugh, 'Ponine. That was funny. Admit it."

"I guess I should," she forced her lips into a grave line, "I should laugh while I still can. With the Inspector as a husband… I might forget how."

With a small yawn, Azelma got out of bed and skipped across the room, "Come on, sis. Let's get up. You know Odette will be here any minute to fetch us anyway." Éponine groaned, but complied, getting to her feet with all the lethargy of a sloth awakening after a long hibernation. Azelma grabbed her sister's hands, and, to Éponine's surprise, began to twirl her around, "Let's dance, shall we? One last dance before you're married, Madame Javert! Do you think the Inspector will dance with you at the wedding party? I don't think so. He doesn't seem the dancing sort. But I'll dance with you then, surely! And everyone will look at us – you especially, in your fancy wedding dress – and say, 'There's the bride and her sister. Aren't they _beautiful_?'"

As the two sisters laughed and spun, sorrow abruptly made its way to Éponine's mind. The innocence of her childhood – and moments of pure, unadulterated glee like this – would soon be but a memory. Her wedding_ was_ a funeral, she mused for a moment. She was laying rest to her youth and making her way toward the future – and in that instant, she didn't want to. She wanted to remain with Azelma forever in their little world of make-believe, where they were sheltered always by a thick fortress of oblivion; oblivion to the evils of the outside world, to war, hatred, misery, sin. Soon, however, she would venture into the outside for the first time in her life, and she was frightened. She could not deny her fear of reality and what her future held, although she wouldn't dare admit that to anyone. If she was to be a woman, her mama had said, her feelings could be known to none except those she was certain she could trust. Though she wasn't ready, Éponine knew she must grow up, now, and leave her girlhood behind. No longer could she hide behind the veils of oblivion and ignorance like a child hiding from danger in the skirts of their mother. No, that world had been but a warm, comfortable womb in which she'd grown and matured like an unborn babe, but now, she had to be birthed into the real world, thrown from her cozy life and all that was familiar to her.

As she walked down the aisle in the church later that day with her father's arm in hers, she raised her head high, looked up to God with a deep, courageous breath, and nodded. Yes, she thought, even if I am not ready, I must be born.

* * *

The ceremony went off without a hitch, although every time she could, she closed her eyes and pretended it was Marius kneeling beside her, his hand resting heavily on hers as they were bound together in holy matrimony. When the wedding ring slid onto her finger, it felt heavier than the very world itself, and a burden unlike she'd ever carried before. Though the service was long, dull, and nearly unbearable in her tightly laced corset and heavy, stifling wedding gown, she managed to go through the motions with success, and spoke her vows robotically, without even a glance toward the Inspector as she did. While she heard the priest's words, she did not really listen, catching onto bits of pieces of his sentences but not comprehending his point – if he even had a point, she thought. She knew he was telling them to be faithful, in sickness or in health, until death would they part, and that was all she figured she needed to know. He was condemning her before God to be chained to the Inspector until one of them died, and only then, she thought, would she ever be free again.

After the ceremony was over, the guests – who were far more numerous than Éponine would've preferred – were cordially invited to a banquet in a small meeting hall a few blocks from the church. There was music, dancing, food, and all in attendance seemed to be having a great deal of fun.

All save for, of course, the bride herself.

As the festivities went on all around her – and as her parents drank themselves into a stupor – she stood in the corner, watching, observing; not dancing and laughing and making merry as a newlywed girl should've. She didn't know where her new husband was and she cared nothing to try to find him. She'd seen him conversing earlier with some men she assumed must be his fellow officers, but since then, she'd withdrawn back into herself, speaking to no one except those who insisted on speaking to her. Even Azelma, her own sister, seemed to have forgotten her, choosing instead to joke around and play pranks on partygoers with a few of her friends. So there she stood, her scalp burning after being yanked at relentlessly by Odette, who'd braided and twirled and tugged on her hair until it was done up in some impossibly complicated hairdo Éponine could never hope to replicate. Her face was caked with powder and a thick layer of God only knew what else that Odette had insisted she wear. It certainly didn't make her feel any prettier, she thought with a scowl. If anything, she assumed she looked like a ridiculous, sad clown. After nearly an hour of wallowing all by herself, Éponine felt someone tap her on the shoulder, and she was pleasantly surprise to find Marius behind her, donning what was probably the finest clothes he owned, for Éponine was well aware he did not possess a great deal of money in recent days. But that didn't matter, she thought, as a smile lit up her face. He was here, and wherever he was, he made everything better.

"Madame," he nodded, taking her hand and placing a light kiss on it that prickled her skin.

She frowned a little. The use of her title brought her back to reality and out of her Marius-induced haze, "I don't think I'll ever get used to that. _Madame_," she tested the word out, and shook her head, "It doesn't sound like me at all."

"Don't fret. You're still Éponine, aren't you? You're still the same person you were yesterday, just with a…wedding ring, on your finger."

When she noticed him eyeing said ring, she hastily hid it underneath her other hand, as if taking it out of view would erase its existence. She smiled, but it failed to reach her eyes, "I suppose you're right. Still Éponine…" she looked to him and straightened her back, putting on an air of false confidence, "Still just same old 'Ponine."

He chuckled, "Well then, would you care for a dance, just same old 'Ponine?"

"Why not? The… _Inspector _doesn't seem the dancing kind," she laughed darkly, and, with a good-natured rolling of his eyes, he took her hand, leading her into the middle of the room where a great deal of other couples were already twirling around, their feet moving fast to keep up with the rhythm of the music. With his arm around her back and his hand locked firmly within hers, Éponine thought she'd never felt so safe, so secure, so sheltered from the real world. Once more, she prayed desperately for him to, somehow, magically transform into her bridegroom, in place of Javert. Alas, God sent no such miracle, and she was forced to come face to face with reality once more: that he wasn't her husband and never would be, no matter how many hours she spent wishing for it to be otherwise. She might as well stop wasting her time, she mused with a sad grin.

"Speaking of the Inspector…Have you talked to him at all tonight?"

She frowned at the mention of the man. She couldn't be certain if he was taunting her or genuinely curious, but nonetheless, Éponine shook her head, "I'm afraid, monsieur, that we haven't got anything to say to each other. I'm his wife. He's my…" she swallowed, and then managed to force the word off her tongue, "_husband._ I don't want to get to know him, and I'm sure he feels the same."

"You know…I remember seeing some young fool of a gamin attempt to jump him, one day. He almost broke the poor thing's neck. You could hear the Inspector yelling at him from a mile away."

She furrowed her eyebrows, "W-why're you telling me this?"

"Just…" he exhaled, "Be careful around him, 'Ponine. He's not a kind man, and I know he's got a temper."

She scowled, "And hardly one month ago you were telling me to marry him!" Marius was silent at this, and Éponine sighed in frustration, "We could still do it, you know. Run off together. Make a new start, away from everyone in this… horrid city."

He did not respond for a minute – twirling her around busily as he was – but after they were face to face once more, he told her, "I care about you, Éponine. But…I cannot run away with you."

"Why? Why not?" she demanded, pouting like a spoilt child.

"I'm still at the university here, you know. And…and…"

"And… what?"

"'Ponine…" he breathed out all at once, "Come. Let me introduce you to someone."

All of a sudden, he took her hand and began to lead them away from the dance. The sea of faces parted for them as they passed by; a few whispering behind their hands about why the bride was gallivanting around with a young man who was most certainly not her husband. Éponine ignored their whispers, however. Let them talk, she thought. She didn't know the majority of them, anyway, and it didn't matter to her if they disapproved of her close friendship with Marius. As they strolled through the thick mass of people, they eventually came upon a small group of women standing near the back of the room, conversing with one another quietly. Upon seeing Marius, one of the girls – a pretty brunette with soft features – smiled, and Marius guided Éponine towards her with a gentle hand behind her back. She shot him a confused glance, for she was sure she didn't recognize her, but he paid little attention to her bewilderment, instead seeming to be entranced by the beautiful young woman.

He cleared his throat, straightened his back, and gestured towards the girl, "Éponine, this is… Cosette. Cosette, darling, this is my friend Éponine."

Éponine's heart nearly ceased to beat at the word 'darling,' but she nodded at Cosette politely, nonetheless, and forced a smile when Cosette did the same for her.

"Mademoiselle." She looked to Marius, then, "How do you two know each other?"

"Well…" He walked over to Cosette's side, and the other girl smiled when he took her hand in his, "Cosette and I… are courting one another, Éponine."

For a long, tense moment, Éponine stopped breathing. She paled, and Marius noticed, sending her a look of genuine concern, "'Ponine, are you all right?"

"Y-yes, I…" she swallowed, trying so very hard not to cry but finding she wouldn't be successful at stopping up her sorrow. She wouldn't dare cry in front of Marius or his new beloved, Cosette, and so she excused herself hastily, "I-if you'll excuse me, I have to…"

She hurried away before she could break down in front of them, her feet carrying her as fast as they could without drawing a great deal of attention. She barely made it into an empty, dark little room that Éponine supposed was used for storage or something of the sort. She found a seat on a little bench just seconds before the first sob issued forth from her mouth, followed by countless others she found she couldn't hold back. There was no point, she thought; no point in keeping her misery inside when it was smothering her, engulfing her mind, snuffing out any and all hope that Marius would, one day, reciprocate the kind of love she had for him. He was courting someone now – this pretty girl, Cosette, whose beauty far surpassed any Éponine could ever hope to obtain. Her lips were full and plump, her hair thick and shiny, her eyes kind and bright. Did he not care for Éponine because she wasn't as pretty as this Cosette? She didn't understand. What had attracted Marius to this girl? What was so wrong with her that he'd only ever consider her a friend? She knew she wasn't ugly – some had even called her beautiful – and she was as good a match as any for Marius, but, she thought, it didn't matter now. She was married. _Married_. The thought forced more tears into her eyes, and she buried her head in her hands, her shoulders beginning to tremble. There was no way she could free herself from the Inspector now. She'd be forced to waste her youth with the man, and God only knew when he would die and she'd be available to marry again. Even once he _did_ die, she thought, she could never get the prime of her life back, these golden years of happiness before she became old and jaded. They would be gone forever, spent with a man she didn't care for, trapped in a loveless, empty marriage.

In her haste, Éponine had forgotten to shut the door behind her, and when a figure appeared in the doorway, she failed to notice its presence at first. But when the person cleared their throat and stepped inside, her head popped up, and she discovered, with horror, Inspector Javert standing before her, his ever-present scowl as dark and ugly as it ever was and his eyes cold, as though he was confronting a criminal he fully intended to arrest.

She wiped at her eyes quickly, "M-monsieur, I-" Before she could say anything else, yet another bout of tears broke out of her mouth, and she looked away, embarrassment flushing her cheeks as she cowered under his flinty, unsympathetic gaze. She didn't want him to see her like this. She cried in front of no one – not even Azelma or Marius, and certainly not the Inspector.

"Come here," he ordered gruffly, and although her legs shook as she stood, Éponine obeyed. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, "Dry your eyes. I'm well aware that you didn't want to marry me, but I cannot stand people who have a…flair, for the dramatic."

They stood in silence for a moment as she pressed the cloth under her eyes carefully, so as to not disturb her meticulously applied makeup, and then looked up at him, "H…h-how did you find me in here?"

Something that might've been a grin on anyone else's face crossed his features, "Your method of escape was not as inconspicuous as you think. More than half the people out there are wondering what's wrong with the bride and I'll be damned if they see you in such a pathetic state."

"Why should you care what they think of me?" she spat, forgetting her fear of him for a fleeting moment.

"You are my wife," he grunted, and she cringed, "Our guests already assume you're miserable in this marriage; the last thing those vultures need is proof." Another stubborn tear littered her cheek, and he breathed out angrily, "Good God, at least _try_ to act happy." When he saw her face crumple once more, however, his eyes and his tone softened. He took several steps toward her, and brought one of his hands to her face, brushing a tear from her cheek with surprising gentleness, "Stop your blubbering, now. I'd advise you to go back out there before someone comes in here to find you. And, as I recall, madame, we have not yet had the first dance expected of a man and wife."

"Dance?" she blurted out incredulously, "You…you dance?"

He motioned towards the door, and followed her as she exited the room, "Not well, I admit." The Inspector led her to the middle of the dance floor, and bowed to her, "But well enough to keep up."

His arm around her was steady, strong, but his embrace wasn't warm or kind as Marius's had been. It was impersonal, his stare frighteningly distant, and as they danced, Éponine found herself feeling tense and uncomfortable. She knew nearly every eye in the room was on her, judging her, analyzing every look that dared display itself on her face, and so she did what the Inspector had told her to do: she pretended to be happy. She kept a smile locked so firmly on her face for so long that her muscles simply forgot how to do anything else, and after a while it was nearly impossible for her lips to form a straight line. Javert hadn't lied to her about his dancing skills; he could keep up with the music and guide her with a firm hand, but his posture was all too rigid, and he looked very much like a statue that had attempted to morph into a human being but given up halfway through the transformation.

After a lengthy minute of only staring at each other, Éponine asked, "Why did you want a wife, monsieur?"

He thought for a moment, "May I speak honestly with you, madame?"

She nodded her head slowly, "I'd rather not be lied to."

"Very well," he said, "I have no other family to leave my estate to, in the event of my death. Before I leave this world, I should like to know that everything I have will go to my wife and children, and not to my servants or… God knows who else."

Her eyes flew open wide, "Th-that's it? _That's_ why?"

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes denoting amusement at her reaction, "Contrary to what you may believe, I am not a romantic, madame, and I have neither the desire nor the time for love." She lowered her eyes for a moment, and the beating of her heart sped up when he pressed their bodies even more against one another. Through the barrier of clothing in her way, Éponine could feel that his chest was muscular, his shoulders broad, and she cleared her throat when her cheeks began to redden. After a moment, Javert spoke again, "Who was that boy you were meandering about with?"

"His name is Marius. Marius Pontmercy. Why?" He kept quiet for a moment, and Éponine grinned, boldness abruptly flowing into her, "Are you afraid he's my lover?"

"Is he?" the Inspector demanding lowly, his grip on her becoming so tight that it nearly made her wince.

"So what if he is?" She smirked, her eyes narrow, taunting, "Why does it matter to you?"

All at once, he stopped dancing, pulling her close to his face roughly and gripping her forearm hard as though it was a mere twig in his grasp. Several dancing couples around them stopped as well to see what was going on between the newly wedded man and wife, and Éponine's breaths started to come fast. After a second, the Inspector finally opened his mouth to hiss, "You are married to me, and are to be had by no man other than_ me_. Is that understood, _wife_?"

She jerked her arm out of his grasp with a snarl, "Why yes it is, _husband_."

He stormed away, then, and left Éponine to stand in the middle of the room all alone, secretly envying every happy, smiling person that passed her by, dancing as though they hadn't a single care in the world. From across the room, she found her gaze entangled with Marius's, and she gave him a small, sorrowful smile in the hopes that he would come and dance with her once more.

But he looked away, extended his hand to Cosette, and led her to the floor instead.

* * *

**()**

* * *

At last, the hour Éponine had been dreading arrived.

The after party ended, and everyone – including Éponine and Javert – went home. In the days leading up to her marriage, most of her belongings had been moved into the Inspector's house already, and so it was there that she went once all the guests had departed. She didn't get a great deal of time to see the entirety of the Inspector's home, but from what she had seen, she knew it was fairly large – much larger than her family's had been, anyway. Her mother and sister helped prepare her for bed, even though Éponine insisted it wasn't necessary and she would be fine alone. In truth, she didn't want anyone to see how truly afraid she was, for nearly every part of her body was shaking; her knees, her arms, her fingers, her legs. She knew well what went on between a man and a woman on their wedding night, and though she supposed she'd come close to doing the act with 'Parnasse before, he said he'd leave her a virgin for this night. What did that mean? She didn't know, exactly, but the idea of lying with Javert was terrifying even if she didn't know what to expect.

So there she sat, at the vanity in the dimly lit master bedroom, with Azelma running a brush gently through her hair and her mother standing in the corner, rolling her eyes with her hands on her hips.

"It's going to be all right, 'Ponine," her sister said softly, a little frown tugging the edges of her mouth down.

Éponine gave her a small, shaky smile, which quickly morphed into a scowl when her mother chimed in, "If he's anything like your father in the sack, all you'll have to do is lay there and wait 'til it's over."

Éponine cringed inwardly at the thought of her parents in bed with one another, but said nothing. As soon as Azelma finished combing her hair, she bent down and hugged her sister tightly, burying her nose into her hair and trying to commit every bit of her scent to memory as though they would never meet again. Both girls knew very well that they wouldn't be seeing each other nearly as often as they had before her marriage, and it saddened both of them greatly. They'd been close all throughout childhood and remained so once they reached adolescence. Neither was happy with this imminent separation, but neither had any way to remedy it, either. As a married woman, she'd be taking on duties as the woman of this house, and no longer would her life be happy, carefree like Azelma's.

She sighed and hugged Azelma back, "I love you, 'Zelm."

"I love you too. Promise you'll come visit soon?"

Éponine smiled and nodded, "I promise. As soon as I can."

Her mother cleared her throat, then, and lumbered over toward her two daughters, "Come on, girl. We'd better be on our way now. Let's leave the newlyweds to their marriage bed."

Azelma gave her one last embrace, then got to her feet and followed her mother. Éponine didn't bother to bid Mme. Thénardier farewell, for she'd never been particularly close to her, and the woman had always favored Azelma over her eldest daughter, anyway. In all honesty, she was glad to be rid of both her parents; of her crude, mean-spirited mother and her greedy, money-hungry father. After they were gone, they closed the door behind them, leaving Éponine alone in the near darkness to wait for the Inspector. None of this felt right, she thought. This bedroom was too cold, too big, and the Inspector's home felt so empty. This wasn't her home. This wasn't her bed, and the girl she saw in the mirror was no longer herself, but a total stranger; not Éponine Thénardier, but Éponine Javert. This wasn't where she belonged, she thought with a desolate sigh, and it never would be. She hugged herself closely, pulling the thin cloth of her nightgown around herself and nervously fiddling with a strand of her hair. The idea of standing before Javert without any clothes on – totally exposed and vulnerable – was terrifying. She already felt small and insignificant when she was with him most of the time anyway, and the anxiety she felt now at the thought of being naked in his presence was overwhelming. Oh, she didn't want to do this, but she knew, at the same time, that he wouldn't permit her to deny him what her mother had called 'her wifely duty.'

The door creaked open, then, and Éponine rose to her feet as soon as the sound hit her ears, attempting and failing to slow the beating of her heart. All the blood in her body seemed to rush to her brain, and she felt lightheaded at the sight of him. He wasn't any less unapproachable in his sleepwear, and his eyes still held the same chilling, predatory glint in them that they held during the daylight hours. She took several steps over toward the bed, and he did the same until they were both standing beside it, their eyes locked, their bodies unmoving as they stared at each other in the low light.

She took a deep breath and lowered her eyes, acknowledging him quietly, "Monsieur."

"Madame," he nodded at her. There was a lengthy pause, then slowly, the Inspector reached out and loosened the tie that bound the nightgown to her chest, allowing the cream-colored fabric to fall around her shoulders and gradually crumple into a puddle of cloth on the ground. A sharp intake of breath from Éponine was heard when her skin made contact with the freezing air all around her, and she brought a hand to cover her breasts once she noticed they were exposed. Her flesh broke out into a field of goosebumps, and a shudder ran up her spine. Even in the winter cold, though, her cheeks were burning hot, her palms clammy. Javert scowled, and nudged her arm away from her chest so he could study the whole of her naked form. Éponine tensed her muscles, expecting him to touch her in some other way, but when he remained still and made not a single move, a tear absconded from one of her eyes and hurried down her cheek.

He sighed, but when he spoke, his voice lacked its usual gruffness and authority. He seemed to take little pleasure in what they were about to do as well, "Lie down."

With a gulp, she wiped the sorrow from her eyes and complied reluctantly, seating herself on the bed and curling into a little ball. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling, and her breath hitched in her throat when he advanced toward the bed and stood before her. He took a deep breath, his eyes trailing over every part of her naked body and sensing her fear with little difficulty. Though he was not fond of disrobing in front of anyone, her terror at being so exposed was evident, and so, to put them on an even playing field, he removed his nightclothes as well, caring not to look at where they fell when he tossed them away. He angled his body toward her without a word, and though he would not normally do so, gave her leave to look at him in the same way he'd looked at her only seconds ago. Her jaw came unhinged at the sight, but she snapped it closed as soon as she realized how much of a fool she must've looked.

For a man of his age, the Inspector didn't at all seem to have let himself go. His muscles held the definition most young lads Éponine's age would have to work years to obtain, and his shoulders were large, broad, sturdy in the way only a man's could be. His chest – though not as toned as his arms – was still firm, and his apparent strength frightened her even more. He was likely more than twice her weight, and she wondered for a moment if Azelma was right, if he would be rough with her and cause her great pain. Surely, she thought, the man had not remained a virgin for so many years. At some point, he must've given in to his carnal desires – perhaps multiple times, for all she knew – and maybe he would expect her to please him, to do something more than lie underneath him and wait until the whole ordeal was over. She lowered her eyes, then, to the area between his legs, and she felt even more dread bubble up in her stomach and eat at her from the inside like she'd swallowed an acid. She knew enough about a man's body to know what it was and what he'd have to do with it, and the thought made her clutch her knees to her chin even tighter. She couldn't imagine how it'd fit inside her. She was so little, she thought, and everything about him was large, daunting. His manhood was intimidating as well in its thickness, but before she could observe it any further, she tore her eyes away from his groin and allowed them passage back up to his eyes, which were watching her with faint amusement.

Her cheeks flushed even redder.

Éponine reverted back into a normal sitting position and inched towards him on the bed like a mouse apprehensively approaching a cat, stopping when their arms brushed against one another. A sudden curiosity overtook her, but before she reached toward the area just below his stomach, she stammered, "I-is that…C-can I…"

He narrowed his eyes, but nodded his permission nonetheless. She extended her hand at that moment, and then tentatively wrapped her fingers around the base of his shaft. He emitted something that sounded to her like a grunt of pleasure, and she felt him harden within her hands, his member swelling with arousal at her touch. Though initially scared by his erection, she explored the area with her hand for another minute or so, her lithe fingers working her way around it, and only stopped when the Inspector cleared his throat and rasped, his voice strained from the sensations in his loins, "Lie down, Éponine."

This time, she obeyed in earnest, easing herself slowly down onto her back and nearly recoiling in shock at the use of her Christian name. He'd always called her by her title – first mademoiselle, and now madame – and she wondered if it meant something, if it signified some change in how he thought of her. She couldn't think of that now, though, she thought as lowered himself down on top of her as gently as he could and hesitated when he heard her wince at the crushing heaviness of his weight.

"I can't promise this will not hurt," he murmured lowly. His gaze caught hers and held on fast as he slowly parted her thighs, "But I will endeavor to make it as painless as I can."

She nodded, and pressed her eyes closed in anticipation of the discomfort. He hadn't touched her at all like 'Parnasse had, however, and she felt no arousal between her legs for him, no desire, no yearning for his touch; there was only fright, and a silent prayer to God for this to end quickly. Before her thoughts could venture any further, she felt him position his member at her entrance, and without a sound or further warning, he thrusted himself into her all at once, tearing past the thin veil of her maidenhead and into her opening. She gasped before she could stop herself, and threw both her arms around his neck as the pain of lost virginity shot relentlessly through her privy parts and burned in the pit of her stomach. She tried to stifle her tears, but they found a way out anyway, and she squeezed her eyes closed as he continued, his movements slow and shockingly gentle from such a rough, unkind man. When he heard her cries of pain, he paused for a moment, exercising an immense amount of self-control as he'd much rather continue without a pause. His eyes searched her face only to find her features scrunched up in agony, her arms holding onto him tightly, her legs trembling as he slid inside her once more. The only way to ease her misery, he realized, would be to ensure that this was as brief as it could possibly be, and so there was another plunge into her, then another, and another, and another – until Éponine was in such pain that she could no longer think properly. Ever so briefly, she thought of Marius, and when she did, her silent tears came harder, faster, but she bit down on her lower lip to keep quiet. She detested appearing weak before anyone, and the last thing she wanted was to weep in front of the Inspector for the second time tonight. He likely thought her nothing more than a stupid, silly girl, she thought to herself; a stupid, silly girl incapable of pleasing him. He quickened his pace a little, and she writhed beneath him, the stretching of her opening nearly unbearable and causing her nothing but pain; no pleasure, nothing like the sensations Montparnasse had given her.

Overwhelmed by how tight and pure and innocent she was – and well aware that he shouldn't prolong this experience for her – he came inside of her hastily with a grunt, and she squirmed as his seed filled her. She yelped and dammed her tears up again, but she could feel her barriers ready to burst, all her melancholy ready to flood out at once. She didn't know what was happening – what this hot liquid inside her was and what it meant – and it scared her even more. Still, she did her best to keep her sadness locked up within her. She was not weak. She'd endured pain greater than this, she reasoned, but she'd never suffered the indignity of sleeping with a man she didn't care for. She supposed she should be grateful for his care with her; she'd heard terrible stories about women whose husbands were violent with them in their bed, striking them and finding pleasure in their anguish. A few moments after he climaxed, he withdrew from Éponine and lay down beside her without a word. The only sound to be heard in the room was the sound of their heavy breathing, their chests rising and falling with every inhalation. Javert looked over at his young bride, then, and frowned when he saw the even more tears welling up in her eyes. She glanced back at him at that moment too, and when she did, she finally allowed herself to cry after denying herself the tears for so long. She hugged her arms to her body, suddenly finding that she was freezing cold, her limbs shuddering in the wintry air. The Inspector watched her displays of grief mutely, unsure if or how he could comfort her.

Finally, she managed to stutter an apology, "I-I'm…I…s-s-sorry."

Unable to bear his gaze any further, she turned away from him. Her tears found their way onto the pillow and dampened the area beneath her head. Éponine carried on for another minute or so, until she felt him place his arm around her waist in an attempt to console her. She flinched, and although instinct told her to move away from his touch, she rolled over to face him once more.

'It's not your fault,' she wanted to tell him, yet couldn't gather any proper words, 'Perhaps it would've hurt no matter who'd done it.'

In desperate search of solace, she buried her head into his chest and wrapped one of her arms around him tightly. If she closed her eyes, she thought she could imagine he was Marius, but the strength of his arms and the long, dark mane of his hair reminded her that it was not so. She hadn't given her maidenhead to Marius as she'd so long desired; instead, she'd been made to give it to the Inspector, and even though he was holding her and not forcing her to continue allowing him between her legs, her heart still felt cold, empty, like a dark cavern sprinkled with snow in midwinter. When she thought of Marius, she sobbed harder, and so she forced him from her mind mere seconds after he entered it. She would forget, just like she said she would. She'd expunge him and his new darling Cosette from her memory because dwelling in the past would only make her more miserable than she already was. Javert tightened his hold on her, and she moved closer yet to him, in desperate need of human contact as she was. His body was warm on hers, and though his arms covered her like a blanket, he reached to the end of the bed and brought the bedclothes on top of them anyway, taking care to leave her with the majority of the blanket.

She felt an unmistakable cloud of drowsiness pass over her abruptly, and within seconds, her eyelids began drooping, her body relaxing against him and her arms going slack. All at once, in this stronghold of the Inspector's making, there was a sense of contentment, and the feeling baffled Éponine. She couldn't understand it for the life of her. The longing to run away and escape her new life fled her mind, if only for a fleeting second. The feeling wasn't happiness, she mused, but more like the possibility of happiness, the hope that, one day, she would be able to live as the wife of this man and not be damned to a world of woe as long as he remained alive.

Her thoughts grew fuzzy, her eyes fell closed, and, with the remnants of tears drying on her cheeks, Éponine Javert let slumber capture her.

* * *

**()**

* * *

She awoke the next morning shuddering violently underneath the blankets, her skin pimpled with goosebumps and her body repeatedly trying to find the warmth of the Inspector that'd cloaked her during the night but discovering she was alone. Her eyes fluttered open, and immediately, she curled herself into a little ball in an attempt to regain some of her lost body heat. The other side of the bed was empty, the slight imprint on the pillows the only remainder of the Inspector's presence the night before. Slowly, Éponine sat up, and when she did, she became very aware of a dull ache creeping from in between her legs. She closed her eyes, put her head in her hands, and with a wince, she remembered last night, although her sense of reason told her she would rather forget. How he'd taken her maidenhead with a gentleness one wouldn't expect from him. How it'd still been agony for her, no matter how much he'd tried to make it painless. How he'd held her without a word while she cried. How she'd let him comfort her. He'd _comforted_ her. The idea was ludicrous. No one in their right mind would think Inspector Javert capable of granting anyone solace in their time of need; they'd assume he would storm off, leave them alone in their misery. Then, she recalled the sense of content that'd flooded into her as she rested in his arms, but she shook her head. She wasn't content. She'd never be content, she swore, as long as she was married to him, as long as his ring encircled her finger. Éponine couldn't explain the strange promise of happiness she'd felt, but she wouldn't let it convince her that she'd be anything more than miserable as Javert's wife, either.

She sighed, but before she could contemplate the events of the previous evening any further, there was a knock on her door. Her fingers trembling in the cold air, she found her nightgown lying in a heap on the floor, then pulled it hastily over her body and tied it tight.

Once she was decent, she called out, "Come in!"

The doorknob turned, then, and in stepped an elderly woman whom Éponine estimated to be around sixty or seventy years old. Her stocky build reminded Éponine of her old servant Odette, back at her parents' house, and suddenly, she realized that was what the woman must be: a servant. She wasn't dressed in finery but she wasn't clad in rags, either; clearly, the Inspector made sure that his servants knew to be presentable even in the early hours of the morn. Éponine cleared her throat and hugged her arms to her chest, her eyes shying away from the older woman's guiltily, for she knew Javert's servants must've been well aware he had taken a wife, and this woman most certainly would've known what went on last night in their marriage bed. Oddly enough, she felt almost as though she'd committed a sin in lying with the Inspector, even though she knew there was nothing wrong with it if she had been wed in a church before God. Whatever her fears were, however, Éponine looked up to find that the woman was smiling at her and advancing toward her with enthusiasm to introduce herself to her master's new wife.

"You must be Éponine. Javert's bride? Ah, what a pleasure to meet you dear. It's high time that man took a wife." Her voice was croaky and a little wobbly from old age, but her eyes were warm, friendly, "I'm Thérèse."

Éponine allowed a little, short-lived smile onto her face, "Are you…his maid?"

"He'll tell you housekeeper is my formal title," she scoffed, "But I'm really more like his mother, you know. Without me, I'm not sure that man would remember to eat!"

"Oh," she blinked, "Um, do you…need something?"

"Yes. I'm just here to change your bedclothes, darling. It won't take more than a minute." Thérèse walked toward the bed, then, and began to collect the sheets. Silently, Éponine's eyes followed her as she worked, and after a moment, her eyes were drawn to a bright red, blotchy stain on the otherwise pristine white bed sheets. She swallowed, and struggled not to break down when she realized what it was.

Her virgin blood. Her lost innocence.

Thérèse followed her troubled gaze and frowned, tossing a blanket over the spot and collecting the bedclothes up in her hands, "Oh my. Don't mind that, madame." Éponine yearned so desperately to forget she ever saw it, but the sight was burned into the back of her eyelids, plaguing her mind every time she shut her eyes. When the older woman noticed that her stare still hadn't left the spot even though it'd been taken out of view, she set down the blankets and hurried toward her. Although she had only just met her, she felt the maternal instinct to console this scared young girl, and so she placed an arm around Éponine, "A little blood from a girl's first time is only normal. You've no need to be worried."

"I-I'm not. I…" She bit down hard on her lip and took a deep breath.

"He wasn't rough with you, was he? Oh, if he was, you can be sure that boy will get a strict talking to from me!"

She looked to the woman with a mix of surprise and amusement at the fact she'd referred to Javert as a mere boy, "No! I mean…no. He tried to be gentle but…it… still hurt." Her shoulders drooped, and Éponine took a seat on the bed. Thérèse followed suit, "If you don't mind me asking…D-does it always hurt? When you lie with someone?"

"Why no, dear! After a while, you might actually find it pleasurable, if you open your mind that is. My late husband – God rest his soul – took a long time to figure out what to do, to make the act enjoyable. Heaven knows it wasn't at first." The old woman paused, thought for a moment, and then continued, "A woman's body is like a book, you see. The Inspector's hardly even a few pages into the first chapter. But, God willing, once he's finished reading," she winked at Éponine, "you won't find marital relations to be such a horrid thing."

"'M not so sure about that…" she muttered, and the old woman sighed.

She stood and walked toward the basket of laundry in the corner, "Then the sooner you're with child, the better, I suppose. He won't lie with you then."

Though she was stunned into silence for a moment at the woman's bluntness, she finally recovered her voice and dared to ask, "That's all he wants from me, isn't it? A child? A-an…heir to his estate once he's gone?"

"Is that what he told you?" Éponine nodded, and Thérèse frowned, making her way to the bed and beginning to spread fresh sheets across it, "Don't listen to him. Deep down, I know he's lonely. In fact, I do believe he's one of the loneliest people I've ever met, and I think he wants a companion more than he'd care to admit. He wants a child, too; not because he wants someone to leave his money to, but because…well, he treasures the innocence of childhood. Not that he'll ever tell anyone anything of the sort, though. But sometimes I think I know him better than he knows himself." She finished making the bed with haste, and then placed a hand behind Éponine's back, guiding the younger girl toward the door, "Come now. Marie, our cook, has made a fine breakfast for you and the Inspector, and I'm certain she won't take kindly to you letting your first meal here grow cold."

* * *

They ate breakfast in complete silence.

A tremendous sense of unease hung over their both of heads a sinister storm cloud, raining down heavily on them whenever their gazes would intersect. The Inspector's cook, Marie, was far better at food preparation than Odette had ever been, and the dishes she served had flavor – instead of being flat, bland, tasteless. Éponine's eyes stayed locked down on her food for almost the entire duration of the meal, only daring to travel upwards to meet Javert's once or twice and even then, lingering on his for hardly more than a moment. Though his face was expressionless as it always was, she thought she could detect a hint of an unspoken apology written on it, for causing her so much pain in the night before and being largely unable to relieve it. Part of Éponine wanted to tell him that it was all right – that she wasn't terribly hurt and that she would, in time, be all right – but she held back, still unwilling to open up to the cold man she'd been forced to wed. Once again, the hint of contentment that she'd felt last night came to mind, but she shook her head and stamped the thought out as though it was a troublesome fire. She must've been out of her mind to think such a thing, she mused, and she was better off forgetting that that tiny, foolish hope had ever existed in the first place.

After they finished eating, Éponine excused herself and began to explore the Inspector's home, wandering down long corridors and ducking in and out of spacious rooms. The house itself was large, its size nearing that of a mansion but not quite as big. Half of the upstairs was unused at the present, but even the rooms that were occupied were covered with what seemed to be a permanent layer of dust and cobwebs no one ever bothered to clean. After walking around for a while around the area of the home that was vacant, she ventured into the part that was in use, into the kitchens, the parlor, the library. Then, she ventured upstairs past the master bedroom and a few other guest rooms, and eventually stumbled upon a small, windowless space filled with bookshelves and furnished with only a desk and a large, velvety chair behind it. The wood panels in the room were dark and the atmosphere foreboding, unwelcoming, as if silently commanding her to get out, and telling her that she didn't belong here and never would. Slowly, she walked over to the desk and took a seat at it, easing herself back into the soft chair and sighing. Just like all the other rooms in the house, it was dusty, and adorned with a few cobwebs here and there, but somehow, it gave off a distinct air of purpose, like it was the most important room in the house and not to be trivialized. She couldn't explain the feeling, really, but even so, the room was peaceful, tranquil, and for a moment she even allowed herself closed her eyes, a surge of fatigue passing through her. When she opened them once more, her gaze was drawn toward a book resting in the middle of the desk. With a contented sigh, she reached for it, opened its pages, and began to read.

"What're you doing in here?"

After hardly a second, a suspicious, thundering voice shook her from her reverie and brought her to her feet all at once. Her heart rate became quicker when she found the Inspector standing at the door before her, frowning and eyeing her as though she had insulted his pride by entering this secluded, stuffy space. She slammed the book closed and set it down hastily on his desk in the hopes that he hadn't seen her reading it in the first place, lest he reprimand her like her father always had for desiring knowledge.

"I-I was…" she bit her lip, then exhaled and gave up trying to explain herself, "Am I… not supposed to be in here?"

"This is my study," he grunted, before stalking over to the desk and standing opposite her, "No one comes to this room except me." He saw her face fall, and so he sighed, his tone becoming lighter, less grave, "But I suppose, as my wife, you may come here as well if you so wish."

She was shocked. Éponine remained silent for a moment until he shot her a glance that demanded an answer, and only then did she reply, "All right."

Then, he picked up the book on his desk with amusement scrawling itself onto his features, "You were reading Voltaire?"

"Yes," she narrowed her eyes, feeling very much as though she was being mocked when he chuckled darkly, "Why? What is funny about that?"

"Women should not read such things." He took a seat, began to write something on a piece of paper, and did not look at her as she spoke.

She scowled, "I-I can't see why not. I can understand it just as well as any man."

"Can you now," he muttered dryly, thoroughly unimpressed.

Anger began to loosen her tongue, "So you believe that the only thing women are good for is to…marry, a-and have children?"

"I _believe_ you are putting words in my mouth, madame." He still failed to look up, and Éponine finally realized that fighting with him would do no real good. With a huff, she turned and sauntered out of the room, not bothering to bid the Inspector goodbye. He was just as close-minded as her father, she thought, and she detested him for it. However, she supposed she'd been a fool to think Javert would be any other way.

She growled silently to herself, but shut the door to his office behind her quietly and did not allow her fury to show.

* * *

When the Inspector came to bed that night, Éponine braced herself for the pain.

As Javert first came into view, he appeared to emerge from the shadows of the doorway like a phantom, like an undead apparition, and she felt a spike of fear rip through her heart. Her stomach burned hot with terror at the sight of him, her mind being pulled back to the feeling of his manhood inside her, to the agony and sorrow and fright she'd felt as he'd taken her maidenhead, and once she remembered the feelings from last night, they managed to slither their way into her mind as well. Overwhelmed, her fingers began to shake, and as she stood at the side of the bed, waiting for him to pull the strings on her nightgown and disrobe her like he had before, she felt as though she would lose consciousness. The world began to tilt. Her temperature shot up.

Her sudden alarm did not go undetected by him. He narrowed his eyes, "You do not look well."

Still bitter from their slight disagreement earlier, she did not want to let herself display any further emotion before him, but found she was unable to do so. She sunk down into a sitting position on the bed and stuttered lamely, "I-I-I'm fine."

She waited until the wooziness had passed, and then she lied down, parting her legs ever-so-slightly to allow him to do what they knew they must do. She let her eyes fall closed as she felt him position himself on top of her, but this time, he pressed his lips to hers instead of entering her straightaway, and she was nearly immobilized by shock. His kisses were cold – distant, like they'd been on the night he'd come to dinner – but she found them to be slightly more bearable than before, somehow. Though she knew she had no reason to, she found her body relaxing below his, and she gave her arms leave to wrap around his neck, tugging him closer and pushing his pelvis nearer to hers. Surprised by her own actions, she paused for a moment, paralyzed at the still-alien feeling of his member rising with desire from underneath his nightclothes, but she disregarded it swiftly. She must learn to get used to it, she supposed, for until God decided to grant her a child, she would be lying with him whenever he so desired.

Javert tore his mouth from hers, then, and moved his lips to her neck – and before she could stop herself, she thought of 'Parnasse, of the night by the fire when she'd let him touch the places no one had ever gone before. The memory elicited from a small gasp from her mouth and a rush of blood in between her legs. She wondered if the Inspector was trying to give her pleasure like Montparnasse had, to make this whole experience more tolerable, but she scoffed at that thought. He didn't care about others, she thought. He would do what he wanted when he wanted it, and would seek no permission or approval from her, would take his pleasure but see no need to share any with her. At the feeling of being so close to her opening yet restrained by the barriers of clothing in between them, he groaned and then made to remedy the problem, pushing up both their nightgowns so skin could finally contact with skin. He didn't speak even a brief warning before he slid inside of her, but even if he had, he wouldn't have needed to, for a myriad of sensations hit Éponine all at once, and though she wouldn't deny that there was still lingering traces of pain, there was something more powerful, as well. Something that she couldn't identify, but something that wasn't entirely unpleasant, either. It felt almost as though pressure was building inside her, growing greater and greater with every thrust and nearing an explosion. It took her a moment to realize just what it was.

It was pleasure.

It wasn't like the pleasure Parnasse had given her; it was deeper, more powerful, and more frightening, in a way. Although most others would've been nothing but glad to feel pleasure, it scared Éponine at first. The thought that the Inspector – the most frigid and stoic man she knew – could manage to give her pleasure was insane, unbelievable, and for a while, she wondered when the pain would return. When it didn't, she whimpered and squirmed underneath him insistently, silently demanding that he go faster, that he drive inside of her deeper. Though the desire for him to do so was unfamiliar and strange to Éponine, it was overpowering, all-consuming, so much so that it abolished her sense of reason and replaced it with only the most primal of instincts.

The Inspector, however, interpreted her movements as displays of pain, and so he slowed his pace nearly to a stop in an attempt to relieve her nonexistent anguish. Unbeknownst to him, his action only served to frustrate her further, and when she bucked her hips and moaned again, he found her eyes through the darkness, demanding, "What? What is it?"

She didn't answer for a moment, writhing with desperate desire as she was, but after a second, she managed to speak, breathing out a command she never would've believed she'd say to him, "H-h…harder."

When he obliged, she threw her head back and dug her nails into the thin fabric of his nightclothes. Still, she didn't find the satisfaction she sought, and so, tentatively, she wrapped her legs around him and began to meet him thrust for thrust, rocking her hips, her rhythm becoming one with his in a matter of minutes. As a result of his newly adopted intensity, she could hear the old bedposts begin to creak faintly in the background, the aged wood squeaking with every movement of their bodies. Though she tried to control herself, Éponine let out a moan, but quickly bit her lip to stifle it, a bit embarrassed at her unladylike lack of self-control. The Inspector, however, didn't seem to care – or even notice, for that matter – and only continued on, his pace growing more and more rapid as his climax mounted within him.

Likewise, she felt herself approaching her peak as well, and it was then as she lay there, seconds away from her orgasm, her judgment cloudy, her senses overridden by pleasure, her head buried into his shoulder, that she dared to utter his name for the first time, "_Javert_."

This seemed to push him over the edge, and with one final, deep plunge inside her, he came. Only seconds later, she followed suit, her body trembling, her fingers shaking madly while she grabbed onto his back and held on for dear life as she rode the torrent of ecstasy shooting through her body. After he'd recovered enough of his mental faculties to remember how to move properly once more, he fell heavily on the bed beside her, breathing hard and trying in vain to compose himself, for he couldn't remember a time in years when he'd experienced that kind of awe-inspiring bliss.

Once she was brought back to reality, a realization slowly made its way into Éponine's mind. It hadn't been enough. There was still an itch where her thighs met, a desire, a want, a persistent need that would not leave her be. It took her mere seconds to discover just what her body wanted so badly.

She wanted more.

More than what'd he done to her. She felt a pulsing down in her nether regions once again, and she shifted. She wanted him within her once more, pushing, thrusting, hitting areas inside her that had previously been unknown, exploring uncharted waters. Though she was tired and part of her body longed for sleep, she knew she wouldn't be able to rest until she got what she craved. Her heart beat faster, her cheeks flushed, and she felt familiar moisture blossom between her legs.

This wasn't right, she thought. No one except Marius was supposed to make her feel this way, but somehow, the Inspector had managed to, and she found she hadn't the will to fight it.

Éponine turned to look his way, and shakily, she stammered, "C-could…could we do that? A-again?"

"It did not cause you pain?" he raised a skeptical eyebrow, but was unable to convince himself that another round would be unpleasant, and he cursed himself for thinking such a thing. Fornication was not meant to be fun; he knew that very well. It was merely a necessity, like eating or sleeping or breathing. It was for producing children, for giving rise to future generations – not for pleasure or enjoyment, and as such, he knew neither of them should desire it. Yet he did, and judging by the faint, catlike narrowing of her eyes in his direction, he could tell she did as well.

Guiltily, as though she was asking him to partake in sin or crime with her, she shook her head and moved closer to him, "No. No…" she smiled a tiny, unsure smile as he began to climb on top of her once more. She took a deep breath, and swallowed when she felt his hands make to remove her nightgown all the way, "I-it felt…_good_."

* * *

**()**

* * *

"I met your housekeeper, Thérèse," she mentioned to the Inspector one night, as they lay next to each another in bed, their nightclothes in disarray and their breathing still labored as they calmed themselves after an unusually long, passionate session of – as Javert insisted it be called – 'fulfilling their marital duties.' She no longer found them frightening like she once had, and sometimes, even looked forward to them during the day. Still, they did not often speak after lying with one another, and so her words came as a surprise to Javert.

He gave a half-smirk at the mention of the woman, "And?"

"I like her. She's honest. She speaks her mind."

"Indeed. It can be quite troublesome," he said as he leaned over and blew out a candle on the bedside table.

She raised an eyebrow, "You do not like a woman who speaks her mind?"

"I said no such thing," he grunted, "But that woman will say what she will, and I'll be damned if anyone tries to stop her. She is one of the few people who make absolutely no effort to lie to me. I respect her for it."

"She told me…She told me that she's like your mother."

"She certainly nags as though she is," he muttered with a roll of his eyes, pulling the blankets up around him and preparing to sleep.

Éponine licked her lips, and then, for the first time, felt the urge to find out about his past. He was still, in essence, a complete mystery to her; she knew nothing of his family or heritage – or even of his Christian name – and at that moment, she wanted to know about more about the man she'd been made to marry. As much as he was frightening, he was equally intriguing, and Éponine discovered that she was no longer as terrified of him as she once had been. He was just a human, she realized; just a human with human wants and needs, and, after observing his care with her in their marriage bed, she felt slightly more at ease around him, not so tense and afraid.

"Who was she?" she asked suddenly.

"Who?"

"Your mother."

Something seemed to change in him, and he scowled, old, yellowed memories entering his mind but being expelled with haste equal to that with which they had come, "I do not speak of her."

Éponine shook her head, "But-"

"I do not share my past, madame, and you would be wise not to inquire about it further," his tone was short, clipped, and took on the same authority it had when he spoke to criminals.

A little taken aback and discouraged, she said nothing for a moment, then sighed, "Then…would you at least tell me your name? Y-your Christian name?"

His reply was brief and danced not at all around the point, "I do not have one."

"What do you mean? You… must have one. Everyone has one!"

He shook his head. His face betrayed no hint of the recollections that stampeded all at once through his mind, like horses suddenly set free from their pastures after years of enclosure and allowed to run free, trampling anything and anyone in their way. A grow loosed itself from his throat, "Not I – at least not one I am aware of."

"Why?" she pried further, and he exhaled sharply, closing his eyes and realizing that his persistent young bride would not stop asking until he made her understand.

So at last, he acquiesced, "If it is imperative you know, I was born to a gypsy fortune teller inside a prison and taken from her shortly thereafter. She never had the chance to name me, and no one else ever bothered to." His voice grew hoarse from exhaustion before he could stop it, "Somewhere along the line – and I know not where, so don't bother asking – I acquired the name 'Javert'… and I fear that is the only one I've ever known."

She felt almost guilty for asking, and stammered, "I-I…I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be a fool," he muttered lowly, and then finally locked onto her gaze, "You'd no way of knowing."

Though she knew that, perhaps, she should leave the matter alone, she ventured further, "Did you ever know your father?"

"He was a convict as well," he told her sharply, then quieted his tone significantly, divulging more information about his past than he had in years for reasons unbeknownst to him, "I did not know him." All of a sudden, he remembered himself, and his eyes became steel cold once more, his tone frigid, barring any further questions, "Have I…satiated your hunger for knowledge, now?"

He did not wait for her to answer, and turned mere seconds later so his back was facing her. Éponine bit her lip, but before she turned away as well, she muttered 'yes,' silently satisfied.

* * *

A fortnight later, as she was preparing to go to bed, she stumbled upon a peculiar sight in the dining room.

Though the room was shrouded by the thick night, she managed to discern the shape of a large man hunched over the table from the shadows, his head in his hands and a bottle filled with an amber liquid of some sort resting nearby. She knew without a doubt it was Javert, although she couldn't be certain just what he was doing. He usually came to bed within minutes of her, and was loathe to remain up late into the night. A few candles burnt on the long, wooden table, lending only a little brightness to the area and not giving her any assistance in determining what was going on. Though she feared it, the only way to know what was going on was to approach the Inspector, and so she took a few valiant steps forward, her hands folded and her footfalls as light as feathers on the ground. Even with her prudence, Javert had ears akin to those of a bat, and so his head shot up the instant he heard someone walking toward him.

When he saw who it was, however, his head tumbled back down into his hands like a heavy rock, "Get out."

"What's wrong? W-what's going on?" She walked over to him and rested a tender hand on his shoulder, only to be shrugged off.

"Leave. Now."

As was her nature, she did not obey. She crouched beside him and placed her hand on his arm, "Monsieur, what has-"

He took hold of her wrist roughly, effectively cutting of her words, "I am well aware, madame, that you do not often do as you are told, but I would _strongly_ advise against doing so at the present."

It was only then that she smelled the potent scent of liquor on his breath, and she shook her head in disbelief. She'd been told, once, that the Inspector never indulged in alcohol – for he viewed it as an evil that lead men to nothing but sin – and so the sight before her made little sense. Though they had not been married long, she could tell that he was not a man to be easily tempted or lead astray, a man who stood firmly for what he believed in. An incident of great importance was the only thing that could draw him to the bottle, she thought, and she could tell by the slumped, defeated look about him that said incident had been far from good.

"Tell me what's happened! I've never seen you…"

"What?" he interrupted before she could finish, "Drink? I do not often fall this low, wife; I assure you."

She was baffled, "I-"

"Everyone in this world is a sinner, are they not?" he growled, and her mouth fell shut, "There are no saints, no…angels of mercy. Every one of us is tainted by sin; none of us are truly innocent. And no matter what…" he paused, then hissed, "A thief is still a thief, no matter what they've done to redeem themselves in the eyes of God. Once a man dares to break the law he is forever a changed person. Forever a criminal. Forever _scum_. And he has _no right_ to evade justice. None at all. He should welcome it as his savior, and he is a fool not to!"

"What you are talking about? _W-who_ are you talking about?"

He hit the table with his fist, causing her to jump, and then stood, raising himself to his full height and stalking around the room, "The fugitive. Jean Valjean. Monsieur _Madeline._ Whatever damned alibi he's cooked up now! He has been one step ahead of me for years – but no longer! No one…" his voice broke off, and then grew frighteningly low, "No one is one step ahead of Javert." Suddenly seeming to realize whom he was talking to, he turned to look at her and scoffed, "Why should I bother discussing this with you? You're just a child."

"I'm not a child!" He snorted, and then took another drink of his liquor. She clenched her jaw and walked towards him, "Why is he so important? He's just…one man."

"One man," he echoed scathingly, "One man whom I have failed to catch for a decade. And I do not fail. I _never_ fail."

"So you failed once. Once doesn't matter-"

"You are wrong. Failing once is no different than failing hundreds of times – thousands of times!" He took another drink, his back turned to her, "You know nothing of this, madame. Go to bed."

"Stop talking to me like…like I'm a fool!"

"You _are _a fool," he muttered into his glass, "An ignorant little fool. You could never understand a matter such as this."

"And _you_…" she narrowed her eyes, "You're an ignorant fool for thinking that!"

He slammed his alcohol down onto the table and spun around to face Éponine once more, "A wife should learn when to hold her tongue."

"Or what?" She raised her face close to his, her cheeks flushing with anger, "_Or_ _what_? What if I don't hold my tongue?"

He placed a hand on her waist and tugged her against his chest – hard. She gasped, and he forced his large hand over her mouth, "Then I shall be forced to hold it for you."

He shoved her back into a sitting position on the table, and, only seconds after removing his hand from her mouth, seized her lips forcefully, his tongue entangling clumsily with hers, his hands groping at her dress without restraint. She winced, and tried to protest, but her words were unintelligible against his mouth and so she resorted to struggling against his hold on her. He was too strong, she realized with haste. He was far too strong, and if he wanted what she assumed he wanted, she would have no way to fight him off.

"S-stop…" she breathed when he moved his lips down and began to bite at her collarbone, sending jolts of pain through her soft, pale skin. When he ignored her, she spoke louder, "Stop it!"

"Be quiet," he rasped, then grabbed the front of her dress and ripped it down with so much force and brutality that it terrified Éponine. Her breathing sped up; her eyes grew wide with fear. The sound of the tearing, stretching fabric reverberated around the empty dining room, but the Inspector did not seem to notice the noise and continued on, taking hold of her exposed breast and pinching her nipple roughly. He appeared to take pleasure in the resulting pain she felt, and it alarmed her beyond belief. Yelping, she continued to thrash about and attempt to free herself, but within seconds, he hand turned her around and bent her over the table, then proceeded to begin fumbling with his trousers. Éponine could still taste his liquor on her breath from his kiss, and she cringed. She grabbed onto the edge of the table as tightly as she could, squeezing her eyes closed and praying one of his servants would come and save her from this, but she knew the truth. Even if any one of them saw him doing this to her, they'd have more sense than to contradict their master's wishes, lest his drunken rage be taken out on them instead. Her neck stung from his bites, and somehow, in the back of her mind, she knew this would be far from pleasant for her. She pressed her thighs against one another, although she knew that, once he'd worked his way past her petticoats, he would have no trouble prying them apart. In what seemed like no time at all, he pushed through the aforementioned undergarments and located the area between her legs with little difficulty. Éponine could feel that he was ready to begin, and so she took a deep breath and bit her lip, in the hopes that that would be sufficient to hold in any cries of pain.

"D-don't do this. You're drunk. Please… _please_ stop," she begged one more time, even if part of her knew it would be fruitless.

"You never listen to me," was his callous reply, "There is no reason I should listen to you."

She tried not to cry out when he entered her; instead only pressing her forehead against the cold table and digging her nails into the wood until her fingers hurt. Her lips formed a hopeless mantra of 'stop, stop, stop,' but the Inspector did not heed her and only continued, not attempting to be gentle at all although he almost always had before. Unwillingness translated into agony for Éponine, but she didn't dare scream for fear he would do something worse to her. She'd never been so afraid of Javert. She'd never been so afraid of anyone. Every surge of pleasure for him was a surge of torment for her, and she wondered if he knew how much pain he was causing her by maintaining such a rough, rapid pace. But she realized, then, that he didn't care. Her anguish didn't matter to him, his mind numbed and dulled by liquor as it was. A throaty moan sounded from behind her, and she fisted her hair in her hands, a million silent screams forming in her throat but held inside. Finally, she gave herself leave to cry, her sobs quiet and muffled as he plunged into her once again as deep as he could go.

She couldn't fathom why he was doing this, but she didn't care. She just wanted him to _stop._

"Y-y-you're a monster," she managed, but was silenced with another frenzy of thrusts – harder, faster. When she spoke again, her voice was only a weak, broken whisper, "_Monster_."

Thankfully, since he was quite inebriated, the whole ordeal did not last long, and he finished fairly quickly inside her with a few short, animalistic grunts. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the white-hot, shooting ache in her privy parts, but it was too great to disregard and she found herself gasping for air, imploring God for relief, and then flinching one final time when he removed himself from her. He said nothing when he walked away, uttered no a brief apology, no words of regret. He seemed unaware of what he'd just done, and it made Éponine want to vomit. Just when she'd began to have hope for the future – hope that she could one day find happiness in this marriage – her optimism had been dashed, any promise of content trampled on. She was wrong if she'd ever thought him merciful or gentle, she mused; he was only cold, unfeeling, and at that moment, she hated him. She hated him, and she was certain she'd never be able to feel anything but contempt for him ever again. Trembling, she slid down onto the ground and, desperate to hold on to something – anything – she wrapped her arms around one of the legs of the table, holding on as tight as she could. She stifled her cries with one hand, and clutched her legs to her chest with the other. She made sure to press the ripped fabric of her bodice to her chest so it would be covered, maintaining her modesty even though, after this black night, she was sure it had been lost forever, stolen by Javert and never to be returned.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pair of feet peeking out underneath a long dress come towards her, and within seconds, she located Thérèse's warm eyes through the darkness. She thought for a moment that the old woman had heard the entire thing and chose not to intervene, but when she saw the shock and horror on her face, she realized it was not so.

"My lady…Oh, good Lord, what's happened?" She knelt down beside her with great effort, her old bones creaking and paining her as she did so. Without hesitation, Éponine reached out and buried herself in her embrace, finally allowing her sobs to come hard and loud and without restriction. Her body was freezing cold, she realized. She was cold – so _cold_ – even in the warm arms of Thérèse, and when she closed her eyes and bathed her vision in shadow, the cold took over, making its way into every part of her body and summoning goosebumps out over every inch of her skin.

"H-h-he…the-the Inspector…" she hadn't the strength to finish, and instead dissolved into tears once more, her words garbled, nearly inaudible. When the strip of fabric Javert had torn from her dress fell down and exposed her chest and collarbone, Thérèse's eyes took in a series of red marks that, in the dim light, looked like the bites of a vampire, like the kisses of a demon. The old woman thought she could even see one bleeding, and so she pressed the light blue cloth of her sleeve onto it to stem the red flow before it could creep downwards and startle Éponine. For Thérèse knew enough to know that, if the Inspector had forced himself on Éponine as roughly as he'd seemed so, that was not the only spot she'd be bleeding from.

"Oh darling…Oh darling," was all Thérèse could think to say, any further words escaping her tongue as she held the shaking young girl in her arms, feeling hot tears leeching through her dress and wetting her shoulder. In the short time she'd known her, she'd begun to think of Éponine as a sort of daughter to her, having had no children of her own, and to see her in such distress wrenched her heart inside her chest.

"H-he was drunk, a-and I…I goaded him but…I didn't think…didn't think he'd…" Once again, she could not articulate a full thought, and so she gave up trying to speak altogether, finding that she had neither the strength nor the composure to continue on.

"There, there. Don't blame yourself." Thérèse shook her head, utterly ashamed of the man she considered her son. She took hold of Éponine's shoulders and forced their gazes to collide, "This was not your fault. Do you understand? This…" she exhaled slowly, the fear and pain in Éponine's eyes weighing on her heart, "None of this was your fault. You must understand that."

A minute or two or ten passed – neither could be sure which – and after bringing most of her sorrow to a halt, Éponine attempted to get to her feet, "I…I-I want to go to bed. Could you…could you help me?"

"Yes. Here. Take my hand. Steady yourself against me. I hope it won't hurt you too much to walk."

Once she got to her feet, it only took her a few moments to feel something hot sliding down the insides of her legs, creeping down toward her ankles, and pooling at her feet. Though she suspected she already knew, Éponine pulled up her skirts to see what it was, and when her eyes were met with the sight of blood, she fainted, falling back into Thérèse's arms and allowing unconsciousness to conquer her with little resistance.

* * *

She was cold.

She was so, so cold.

Luckily, sleep had come easily to Éponine and held her in its clutches all night long, but when she awoke at nearly ten o' clock in the morning the next day, she could not seem to stop shaking. She felt the ghosts of Javert's hands all over her, and when she did, she tried to get them off, brushing at her body as though bugs were crawling across her skin and creeping underneath her clothing. Still, the sickening feeling did not cease, and when Thérèse, who had been keeping vigil by her bedside all night long, approached to see what was happening, she was startled to find Éponine thrashing about, her face pale and sweaty as she repeatedly told someone to stop, stop, _stop_. It didn't take her long to realize what was happening, and when Éponine finally awoke, she let the old woman take her into her arms and cradle her like a child.

Neither of them spoke; Éponine because she was unable to, Thérèse because she could not even begin to imagine any words in the world that would comfort her.

When the Inspector knocked on his wife's door half an hour later, Thérèse pushed him into the hallway and let her fury loose on the hungover man without hesitation.

"I want to see her," he told her gruffly, and she resisted the urge to spit at his feet.

"Well I think it's safe to say, Inspector, that she doesn't want to see you." He tried to move past once more, but she got in his way and, though he was vexed, he did not try to push her aside. She shook her head in disgust, "How in God's name could you've done this to her? She is so young, and so… _so_ sweet. You should be grateful to have a bride such as her. But now! Now I think you'll be fortunate if she ever wants you in the same room as her again!"

He kept his cool, "I was drunk…and not in control of my own actions."

"The hell you weren't! Tell her that! Look that poor girl in the eyes and _tell her that_." she sneered, and he winced, his ears ringing at the sudden increase of volume in her voice, "Once a husband forces himself on his wife that way, she can never look at him the same way again. She can never really trust him." She huffed, "And to think I believed you longed for a companion. For someone you could _love_."

"Who is to say I do not?"

She ignored his question, "What in God's name were you thinking?"

"I was… angry, intoxicated. I had been inches away from capturing Valjean and the old man slipped through my fingers. Again. Like a _snake_."

She shook her head, "So you took it out on her! No man in his right mind should _ever _do such a thing to a woman. I am ashamed of you."

Though he pretended to remain unaffected by her words, deep down, they troubled him. While he often denied that Thérèse acted as a mother for him, he had long ago accepted the fact that she did, and, like a child always was for their mother, he was troubled by her disapproval, by her apparent loss of faith in him. He could not stand the idea of what he'd done, and although he knew it would do him no good now, he'd ordered the servants to dispose of all the liquor in the house earlier this morning. It was the drink of Satan, he'd told them, and within the hour, the home no longer possessed a single drop of alcohol – but that mattered little, he thought to himself. He had made a mistake, committed a grievous wrong, and for the first time, he found that praying granted him no relief, no respite from the toils of guilt and self-loathing. He had realized with horror in the hours before dawn that apologizing to God would do him no good. He had to apologize to Éponine, to his wife, and he could not say he would blame her if she turned him away or refused to speak with him.

He knew forgiveness for this would not be easily obtained.

He expressed an abridged version of these thoughts to Thérèse, and with a sigh, she stepped aside, but not before telling him, "Fine. I will let you see her. But I swear to God, the _instant_ she tells you to get out, you will get out. Do you understand me, boy?"

With what could perhaps be described as a meek nod from him, he opened the door and walked in.

Javert approached her slowly, and once he got close enough, saw that she was staring blankly out the window, her complexion far more pallid than he remembered it being yesterday. Propped up with pillows as she was, he could also see the line of bite marks on her collarbone from last night, and, though he'd long ago steeled himself against many of the horrors in the world, the sight made him sick, to know that he'd forced his mouth on her and branded her with his teeth and she hadn't wanted any of it. He had arrested rapists and attempted rapists on many occasions, and always regarded them with the utmost distaste, finding their pursuit of a woman against her will to be vile, base. Now, he was no better than them. He had taken a woman without her consent, and even though he knew it was not considered a crime if they were man and wife, he felt a sudden urge to lock his own hands in chains, to put his despicable soul behind bars.

As he had never been exceptionally good with people, he was uncertain of what he should say, but once she discovered that he was in her room, Éponine was the first to speak. She flinched, and began to press herself against the head rest, as though she could somehow escape into the wall and flee from the man she was forced to call her husband. He took a step forward, and she raised her hands to shield her face, "N-no. No! Stay away. S-stay away from me!"

He lowered his eyes, but advanced no further, "Madame, I came to…offer my apologies, for last night. I should never have done such a thing. I am…" He met her empty stare, and let out a breath all at once. He was made abruptly aware once more of his own guilt, and he ground his teeth together with fury at himself, "I am…sorry."

She looked away from him, but when he saw her begin to cry, he moved towards her slowly, like a child approaching a butterfly that was poised to fly away. Once he got close enough, he placed a hand on her shoulder, but the instant she felt his touch, she scrambled to the other side of the bed, out of reach. She did not scream or weep; all she did was whisper, her voice low and scratchy and devoid of any emotion in the way a young woman's shouldn't have been, "Don't touch me."

He extended his hand once more, and again, she withdrew, "_Don't touch me_."

* * *

**()**

* * *

"How is she?" Azelma asked Thérèse, eyeing her sleeping older sister with a frown. Her parents had received a message from the elderly woman the day before requesting that someone from her family come and give Éponine comfort after an incident of great misfortune, and her parents, predictably, hadn't bothered to come themselves, sending her in their stead. In truth, Azelma had never seen Éponine look so much like a child, and her apparent helplessness worried her. She'd seen her when she was ill, when she was afraid, when she was sad, but Azelma thought that none of those came anywhere close to how she looked, now. Even in her slumber, she did not appear as though she was at peace, and every couple of seconds, she would scrunch her eyebrows together, tossing and turning about and kicking her feet. For a while, she was unsure if she should even approach her, for she'd never, ever seen Éponine in such a state, but she realized quickly that her sister needed her now more than she ever had before, and that she could not turn away.

Thérèse sighed, and in doing so, threw Azelma from her reverie, "She awakes from nightmares nearly every time she sleeps…screaming at someone to stop. I've taken to sleeping on a little cot on the floor since she's so afraid of being alone at night. I fear…I fear the Inspector doesn't realize what he's done."

"Why?" she murmured, "Why would he do that to her?"

Her _sister_ – her own flesh and blood – was in emotional agony because of that horrid man, Azelma thought, and she felt a surge of ire towards the Inspector, felt the sudden need to find him and cause him as much pain as he'd caused Éponine.

"Alcohol can cloud a man's judgment, mademoiselle, and make him do terrible things. But he should never have lost control and done…this." She smiled reassuringly, but the expression was shaky, unhappy, "I'm sure she'd like to see you. She may have me for company, but there's nothing like family."

"Will she be angry if I wake her?"

Thérèse shook her head and ushered her towards the bed, "No. Not at all. Come." She stopped walking for a moment, then, prompting Azelma to halt as well, "If I might… could I suggest that you avoid mentioning the Inspector to her? She's still a bit fragile, you know."

Azelma nodded, and walked a few steps closer to where her sister laid, her chest lightly rising and falling with each breath, her hands tucked underneath her head, her features still in morning light. She knelt beside her, and gently, reached out and brushed a piece of hair from in front of her eyes and behind her ear. Suddenly conscious of every touch that was given to her as she'd become in the past few days, Éponine awoke with haste. There was a flash of several emotions at once across her face – confusion, fear, slight irritation – but finally, she settled on joy and smiled when she saw her sister's bright blue eyes. Sensing that she should leave the siblings by themselves, Thérèse stepped backward and exited the room quietly.

"Hey 'Ponine," she greeted, and Éponine managed a feeble smile.

"'Zelm. Hey. Come here." Azelma leaned down and let her wrap her arms around her. Her embrace was tight, desperate as though separation from the younger girl would kill her, and it betrayed every single bit of fear Éponine still felt. When Azelma looked down, her eyes were drawn to the dark spots on her sister's neck, and she bit down hard on her lip at the sight. Éponine followed her gaze, and with a gulp, pulled her nightgown up so the bites were taken out of view by the soft white fabric.

Azelma forced a smile onto her face, but it did not succeed in climbing to her eyes, "How're you feeling?"

"All right, I guess. Still…sore, a-a little."

Both girls were terribly aware of just why she was sore, and, though Thérèse had warned her against it, Azelma said, "He shouldn't have done that, sis. It…it isn't right."

She laughed cheerlessly, as though the whole ordeal was joke, as though it was hilarious, "It's not a crime if you're married, you know. He could…" she gulped. Her laughter stopped, "He could do it again, a-and I wouldn't be able to stop him."

"He can't!" she exclaimed, then quieted herself when Éponine flinched, "H-he can't do that to you again. If he does, I'll…I'll…"

"Stop, 'Zelm," she shushed her. She took her hand and held it tightly, "I don't want to talk about him anymore." Azelma nodded and flattened her lips into a grim line. Like she always had before Éponine's marriage, she crawled into the bed and lay next to her sister above the covers, her head resting on her shoulder. Éponine grinned and shut her eyes for a moment, "How are Mama and Papa?"

Caught off guard by the question, she paused for a moment, "They're all right. But…"

"But…what?"

"Well…" she began hesitantly, "A few days ago, they told me that we're going to have to move into a little flat, in a poorer part of town. Papa said…s-something about a gambling debt having to be repaid, and I guess he sold our house to pay it."`

"What?" she turned to face her, "What about Odette? Will you have any servants there?"

"Mama said she had to let her go, and that…where we're going – Saint Michele, I think – we're not going to be able to have any more servants. I'm scared, 'Ponine. I-I don't know what it'll be like there."

Though she was aware of the gravity of the situation, she played it off well for Azelma's sake, "Don't be worried. I'm… I'm sure it's not anything bad."

Comforted by her words, Azelma nodded, "You're right. Mama and Papa would never let anything bad happen to us, right?"

Éponine couldn't help but recall how her parents had forced her into the miserable situation she was in, now, but nonetheless, she nodded as well, "No. No, they wouldn't."

After speaking with one another for a little while longer, Azelma excused herself and left, and Thérèse took her place beside Éponine, sitting on a little stool she'd brought up from the kitchen to keep her company.

"You and your sister look a lot alike, you know," she made conversation in an attempt to draw Éponine's thoughts away from Javert. She knew her thoughts inevitably would return to him, but, she reasoned, if she could take her mind off of that man for a while, it would grant her a short-lived escape from reality.

Éponine shrugged, easing herself into a sitting position and fighting back a whimper when she felt intense pain cut into the tender region between her legs, "You think so? Her hair and eyes are different than mine."

"Perhaps. But you can see the family resemblance."

Silence reigned without opposition for a moment, the Inspector's presence weighing heavily in the room even though he was not there. Finally, Éponine grew unable to ignore him and asked, "Where…where is the Inspector?"

"Out patrolling, I believe. Won't be back until later this evening."

"A-am I to dine with him…tonight?"

"Not if you don't want to, my lady," she placed her hand on Éponine's, "I can have your meals brought up here until you are ready to see him again."

"All right," she murmured and settled back into the pillows, relieved, "All right." There was another pause, and then she asked, "Will he try to do it again?"

"No," Thérèse said firmly, "No. I will not permit it."

Éponine looked to her in disbelief, "But…he's the master of the house. H-he'll take what he wants, won't he? And my Mama told me before I came here…that a woman can't deny her husband her…her _wifely duty_."

"I believed that, once." As she took in the broken, terrified look about Éponine – as she observed the way she looked like a baby bird that'd fallen from its nest and been tossed into a cruel, unforgiving environment totally alien to it – she realized that she could no longer stand behind such a thing. She tried and failed to smile, "But I believe it no longer."

Her body inching its way closer and closer towards sleep, Éponine's eyelids began to droop, but she managed to voice one last question, "When must I see him again, Thérèse?"

The dread carved into her face at the thought of seeing Javert once more was too great for Thérèse to bear, and so she looked away again. When Éponine yawned, she reached down to the end of the bed and brought a heavy blanket on top of her, "Not today. Not tomorrow, either. Perhaps not even the day after that." She sighed, and whispered into the younger girl's ear only seconds before she succumbed to sleep for a second time that day, "You'll see him only when you're sure you are ready, dear."

* * *

Four days later, though the idea of seeing Javert still petrified her, Éponine agreed to sup with him. She was sure she didn't do it for the Inspector, as she had no desire at all to see the man, but because she felt obligated to return to her duties as mistress of the household. She didn't want to seem too much of a child to the servants in Javert's home; she wanted to prove to them that she was strong, independent, and so she confided in no one except Thérèse and put on an air of faked confidence as she walked down the hall to dine with him, every step feeling as though she was not nearing food but nearing the guillotine.

He waited for her outside the dining room, and when he saw her approaching him from down the hall, he bowed his head, "Madame."

It was becoming increasingly hard for her to draw breath, but somehow, she managed to do the same, "Monsieur."

Conscious of the fact that she was just about as fragile as glass at the present, he had endeavored to appear the least frightening as he could – and even tried to smile at her as they walked toward the table and sat down – but even so, she did not seem to be put at ease. She interpreted his gentleness as only an attempt to regain her trust so he could violate it again, and so she would have none of it. As there was no guarantee he'd never lose control with her again, there was no way, she decided, that she could ever trust him again – if she'd ever really even trusted him to begin with. When he pulled out her chair for her, she did not smile and only sat down, a multitude of memories being called back into her mind when she rested her palms on the dark wood of the table before her. Once more, she felt his hands all over her, felt every violent thrust of his hips against hers, tasted the strong liquor on his tongue, and she began to sweat.

"What is it?" he asked softly, scooting his chair into the table as well and looking her over with caution.

"Nothing," she murmured, "N-nothing."

He finally noticed how intensely she was staring at the table, and it did not take him long to realize why she was so disturbed, "Perhaps… I should have chosen a different room for us to dine in."

"No," she sucked in a shaky breath, "No, this is all right."

A thick blanket of quiet covered them for a while, as Javert's cook appeared to serve them their dinner. After a long day of work, Javert ate ravenously and finished quickly, only to find when he looked up at Éponine that she had even barely touched her food, and instead was twirling a fork around in her pasta, her blank stare comparable to that of a corpse's.

He took a deep breath. The Inspector knew all too well that he should say something, for he assumed she wouldn't be the one to initiate any discussion between them, and so after a few minutes of silent contemplation, he began, "I do not…" Her head snapped up to look at him in surprise, and he found the words slipping off his tongue at the ill-concealed hate scrawled all over her face. Cursing himself, he attempted to continue, "You are likely aware that I am not good with…people. And I fear, madame…" he scowled and cursed himself once more for sounding like a fool, "that I don't know how to apologize to you."

"Is…is that an apology?" When his eyes came into contact with hers, she looked away with haste, and he nodded slowly.

"Yes." However, he observed no change in Éponine, and a foreign sense of defeat crept into his mind, "It is not sufficient." Without a sound, she shook her head, and he set his silverware down to lend her his full attention, "What must I do, then? What…" he found his voice begin to morph into an exasperated growl, but held his irritation inside and spoke as tenderly and as thoughtfully as he could manage, "What must I do to earn your forgiveness?"

When she looked up at him at last, she did not see the rational, deathly calm Javert; instead, all she saw was the drunken, lustful creature he'd been several nights ago, and the sight sickened her, "I…I-I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" he snarled, and when he saw her begin to cower before her, he ground his teeth together, "I…_Good God_."

Why was he such a failure with women – with _everyone_? Why did he lack the communication skills every other person in the world seemed to possess? What was so wrong with him? He couldn't understand it. He knew he was cold, for he made no effort to be otherwise. Nearly every person he met was afraid of him, and those who weren't immediately terrified of him soon learned to be. He'd never really cared before, he thought. He hadn't ever minded if people were frightened by him, but now, he felt the peculiar urge to reach out to his wife, to find a way to show her that he would never harm her in such a way again. Oddly enough, he didn't want her to fear him so, but he knew no way of relieving her terror and it frustrated him more than he'd care to admit. Here he was, intelligent and self-assured, totally capable of reciting a great number of long and complicated laws and ordinances at the drop of a hat, but he – Inspector Javert, arguably the most distinguished law enforcement officer in Paris – knew no way to console this girl, had no way to make her trust him. It wasn't right, he thought. He was Javert. He was not a dull, ignorant child. He was a man. He was a _smart_ man. But the only knowledge he had, Javert realized with sudden horror, came from books, from laws, from papers and essays. He was far more intellectual than most citizens in Paris could ever hope to be, yet when it came to people, he was a fool, a complete idiot, largely unable to deal with others and irritated frequently by the average man's stupidity.

Upon stumbling across these thoughts, his anger climbed to greater heights, and Éponine shrank back from him even more like a turtle reentering its shell, closing itself off from the world. He noticed, and calmed himself, "I…will admit that I…" he did not look at her as he spoke, "I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing _to_ say, monsieur," she mumbled, and then got to her feet, "If you'll excuse me, I-"

"Wait," his hand reached out and grabbed her wrist, in a last attempt to make her stay, to make her hear him out.

"L-let me go," she rasped, and the instant he saw the panic in her eyes – the suffocating and overwhelming terror – he obeyed, releasing her when he realized how harsh his grip on her forearm must have felt. Again, he cursed himself. Even when he aimed to be good – to be kind, gentle – he only managed to push her further and further away. When he intended to do good, he'd done bad. When all he wanted was to make her understand, he'd repelled her yet again. Perhaps she'd been right, he thought. Perhaps he was a monster.

Éponine hurried away, and when the Inspector was alone once more, he sank back into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

* * *

A month crawled by, and Éponine's fear of the Inspector did not change, did not increase or decrease. She avoided him as often as she could, only seeing him for breakfast in the mornings and dinner in the evenings. He no longer shared a bed with her and had claimed one of the guestrooms as his own, for she continued to occupy the master bedroom and he did nothing to protest it. Though he tried doing little things for her – pulling out chairs for her, holding open doors, taking care not to be gruff or short with her at all – they made no real progress, and Éponine was not any less afraid of him than she had the night he'd taken her on the table. Every time he touched or brushed past her, her blood ran cold, her limbs going rigid the fear that he might try to force himself on her again. Even though she had once thought fulfilling their marital duties pleasurable, she now only associated the act with pain, with suffering and anguish, and in time, she managed to convince herself that it'd never been enjoyable to begin with. Éponine and Javert had, essentially, been forced back into square one, into the state of perpetual wariness and mistrust that they'd occupied during their brief engagement.

Marius called on her one freezing winter day in February, and, the moment Thérèse told her there was a young man by the name of Marius Pontmercy at the door for her, she came running toward the foyer to greet him, her heart doing little jumps and flips inside her with joy. As she hurried down the halls, she ran past Javert, who had been making his way up the stairs in the foyer to his study, and he followed her with his eyes as she ran toward the door and flung herself into the arms of their mystery guest, burying her head into his chest and leaning against him in a way that made it clear she felt something far more than friendship for the young man.

The Inspector harrumphed and stalked toward the pair, raising his chin at them and straightening his posture so he looked very much like a statue instead of a human. Éponine's back was turned to him and as a result, she failed to notice his presence, but once the curly haired boy holding her saw him, he pulled away from the embrace, cleared his throat, and extended his hand to Javert, "Inspector. Hello. I-I've come to call on your wife."

"Yes, I see that," he nodded without shaking his hand, looking over the boy with a critical eye and then noticing, with faint annoyance, how Éponine seemed to be clinging urgently to him, as though he might vanish without a trace.

"I was just going to show Monsieur Marius the parlor," she told him, and let out a breath when Javert nodded his consent.

"Very well. I shall be in my study if you have need of me," he excused himself reluctantly, knowing that, even though he was suspicious of this Marius – who, he realized after a moment, was the boy she'd been speaking with at their wedding – Éponine wouldn't take kindly to him insisting that he chaperone their visit.

With a little smile, Éponine took Marius's hand and led him toward the sitting room. They took a seat on one of the sofas, and, barely seconds later, Éponine once more wrapped her arms around Marius, holding on desperately. Though she was not weeping, her sorrow was palpable, and so he asked, "'Ponine, what's wrong?"

"E-everything. Everything's wrong." She sniffed when tears began to invade her vision, the attackers assembling quickly in her eyes before breaking free and charging down her face. She broke away after a minute, but left her fingers sewn in with his, "I hate it here. I hate…I hate everything about this place!"

"What do you mean? Why do you hate it so much?"

"It doesn't feel like home. I just…I want to go back to the old days, when we were kids, and we used to sit under that magnolia tree for hours and talk…and…" She sighed. Her hands began to tremble, "And the Inspector…he…he…"

"He what? What's he done to you?"

The girl before him was not Éponine, he thought, and he discovered that living with Javert had brought on some kind of terrible change in her. This Éponine was pale as though she hadn't seen the sun in months, and thinner than he remembered her ever being, the bones in her face seeming sharper, more prominent. Her eyes seemed sunken in, her gaze lifeless and numb, and if he looked at her from a distance, he thought she would appear very much like a ghost, like a specter trapped in limbo and unable to proceed to the afterlife.

"He's…cold, and unfriendly, and…" she stopped talking, unable to complete her sentence as though speaking of the night on the table aloud would put her in great peril. Somehow, she felt as though the Inspector could hear every word she was saying – as though he had ears in every room in this house – and it put her ill at ease.

"He what?" he asked quietly, his voice low as if he could sense that something horrible had happened to her. Marius remembered the warning he'd given to her about Javert's temper on the day of her wedding, and so he braced himself for the worst.

Wordlessly, she reached down and eased the green fabric of her dress down a little, exposing the faded bite marks that'd lingered far longer than most normal cuts or scratches and refused to heal. He squinted to see exactly what he was supposed to be looking at, and when he failed to, shot her a glance of bewilderment. She sighed and fixed her clothing, "There was…there was one night, when he was drinking, and we got into a fight and he…" She swallowed, and as he recalled the shape and placement of the scars on her collarbone, Marius came to a terrifying conclusion.

"He didn't…force himself on you…did he?"

She nodded without daring to say another word, before fresh sorrow manifested itself in her eyes. Her voice was but a tiny, childish squeak, "Yes."

"Dear Lord…Éponine, I'm so…so sorry," he muttered. He felt abrupt fury at the Inspector for harming Éponine in such a way, but when she let herself tumble into his arms for a third time that afternoon, he found he could do nothing at the moment but hold her and try to bring her as much comfort as he could with his presence alone. Even in his arms, though, she did not sob, for it seemed her eyes had been emptied of their final bout of tears and could no longer summon any. They remained like that for a moment in the stillness of the parlor, alone with one another for the first time in months, and when they broke apart, Éponine did what she'd longed to do for years, her inhibitions broken by the cruelty of the new life she'd been forced into.

She leaned in and kissed him.

When their cheeks bumped against one another, the wetness on the sides of her face was transferred onto his, her sadness shared with the only man she swore she'd ever truly love. For a few instances, she forgot about his courtship with his darling Cosette, forgot about her loveless marriage to Javert, forgot about everything and everyone in the world except Marius. Marius, Marius, Marius. He captured her thoughts, overwhelmed her senses, sent her flying high amongst the clouds. Much to her chagrin, however, he did not respond to the tender mouth upon his, and after the initial shock wore off, he pushed her away with the least amount of force he could manage without being ineffective. Guilt filled his heart when he saw the crestfallen look of lost hope on her face, but grew larger and heavier when he thought of Cosette, of how he had – albeit against his will – been unfaithful by kissing another woman.

"'Ponine…" he sighed, and she lowered her eyes, sensing imminent rejection, "'Ponine…I-"

"I've always wanted to do that, you know," she interrupted him gently, her eyes sparkling with happiness that was slowly being choked out by his reluctance, growing weaker and wilting into misery, "I've always…w-wondered what it would feel like."

"Éponine, Cosette and I-"

"Are in love? I know…I-I do, I just…" she leaned her head on his shoulder, "Could we just… be here, right now?"

"No, Éponine, I'm trying to tell you…" he took a deep breath and finally managed to speak without disruption. She sat upright once more, and he shifted uncomfortably under his friend's wide-eyed, hopeful stare, "Cosette and I are engaged."

"Oh." She was stunned into silence by the news for a moment, the all too familiar feeling of defeat spreading throughout her chest and leeching into her heart like poison. She stammered, "Y-you…you are?"

"Yes," he said gravely, not as if he was delivering joyous news at all. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of cream colored paper that was tied shut with a little red ribbon, and handed it to her, "I came here… to invite you to our engagement banquet."

She looked over the invitation without saying a word, running her fingers over the smooth paper and twirling the ribbon between her fingers absentmindedly. For a moment, Éponine envied Marius for being allowed to marry someone he loved, but just as quickly, she felt a stronger wave of jealousy for Cosette, for having the boy she'd do anything for wrapped around her finger. Without realizing it, she was holding the thing so tightly that the edges of it had begun to crinkle and tear slightly. When she heard a little ripping noise, she loosened her hold on it and prayed Marius hadn't seen her fury, her jealousy, her frustration with having him torn out of her reach before she could ever take hold of him and let him learn to love her.

She looked back at him and forced a dismal smile on her face, "Uh, thank you. I'll…I'll be there, I suppose."

"Good," he rose to his feet slowly with Éponine following suit, "I have to be on my way, now. Farewell, madame." He took her hand and kissed it, but just as he was preparing to let go, he leaned in suddenly and whispered in her ear, "Don't think you're powerless against him, 'Ponine. Be strong. Don't let him do anything to you against your will." She nodded, and he sighed. "I just wish I could do more to help you."

"You did," she whispered back, their closeness bringing a flush onto her cheeks, "You're here. That's… enough for me."

He squeezed her hand one last time before turning and walking away. However, once he reached the archway that connected the parlor to the hallway, his eyes came upon those of Inspector Javert, who had been standing there observing the two of them for only God knew how long. Immediately, Marius straightened his back and clasped his hands together behind his back, nodding politely at him before making his way toward the door and exiting the home.

Éponine refused to meet Javert's gaze when he opened his mouth at last to speak, "It isn't proper for a woman to be in such proximity to a man who is not her husband."

Before she could stop herself, she shot back, "And it is proper for a husband to force himself on his wife?"

He shifted, guilt entering his mind but not being expressed in any way. If he was to be honest with himself, he was slightly irked that she could even make him feel such a thing at all, "Though it may not be… proper, it is not illegal. I broke no laws."

"That's all that matters to you, isn't it?" she sneered, her question pronounced with certainty as though it was a statement instead. She stepped forward, "The law? Human emotion be _damned_."

He heard her take an angry breath, and so he tried a different route, "I continue to offer my apologies, if only you will accept them, madame."

"That isn't an _apology_," she spat, "That's a…a-a bunch of words than don't mean anything!"

"Then what the devil must I say?" his cool demeanor deserted him for a moment, his mind entirely perplexed as to what, exactly, she wanted from him.

"I don't know! I…something! Something that isn't _that_!"

"I fail to understand why that isn't enough for you," he huffed.

"Oh, you're so _frustrating_!" she groaned, then made to storm past him and out into the hallway. She stopped for a moment, and turned to look at him, "And I don't want any of your apologies, so please…do not pretend you care what you've done."

She walked away only seconds after that, and though he snarled underneath his breath in frustration, he did nothing to try to stop her. But once she was gone and without of earshot, he lost control for a second and let his fist collide with the wall, his rage surging to limits he had not allowed it to reach in years. What in God's name was it about that girl? She was no different than hundreds of other people he'd encountered; hundreds of people who'd never incited even a tiny fragment of emotion in his wooden heart. She was just another person, he thought with a scowl as he ventured outside the parlor and into the hallway just in time to see her finish ascending the stairs, a forest green puddle of cloth trailing behind her as she disappeared from view.

She was just another person, he thought once more, but she was a person who'd made him feel something again – even if it was only anger and guilt – and he was uncertain if she should be grateful to or despise her for it.

* * *

**()**

* * *

Her bleeding didn't come one month, but Éponine thought little of it, for her cycles had never formed a discernible pattern in all the years she'd had them and such a thing was only the norm for her. Thérèse noticed the lack of bloodied linens in the laundry and said nothing, thinking it to be a result of all the turmoil her mistress had been under in recent days.

Then, it did not come the next month either, and while it worried Éponine somewhat, she thought little of it again. Thérèse noticed once more and still said nothing, for this time, she knew her suspicions would do nothing but trouble Éponine. She would wait, she decided, and let Éponine come to the realization on her own, since she knew it would be a far from joyous occasion for her.

It didn't take Éponine herself long to notice something was amiss, and one morning, after Thérèse had struggled to lace Éponine's corset to its usual tightness for nearly ten minutes – and after she'd just finished depositing any food she'd had her in stomach into her chamber pot – she sat the older woman down on the bed next to her and sucked in a deep breath, the bitter taste of vomit still lingering on her tongue. She'd had her suspicions, too, of course, but she wanted so very desperately for someone to disprove them and calm her down, to tell her that she was only being paranoid like she always was.

She fisted a handful of her dress roughly in her hands and finally asked, "H-how do you know if you're with child, Thérèse?"

The old woman didn't blink. She'd been expecting something of the sort sooner or later from Éponine, and so she spoke without hesitation, with the wisdom only those years past the middle of their lives could possess, "Well, have you been sick to your stomach at all?"

"Yes. Just this morning. A-and the last. And… the day before that, too."

A pause, then, "Have your breasts been tender to the touch?"

Unsure, she brought a hand to her chest and pressed down upon it lightly. She realized with fright that when she did, her bosoms were, indeed, quite sore, aching and straining against the bodice of her dress. She gulped, "Yes."

"All right. Has your cycle come yet this month?" she asked, though she already knew the answer was no.

The dread in her heart became greater, less easy to overlook, "N-no. No, it…it hasn't been coming." Thérèse lowered her gaze, the sudden clarity one got when having a theory of theirs confirmed filling her eyes, and Éponine bit her lip, "W-what does that mean?"

She sighed, "I think you know what it means, dear."

"No," she shook her head again and walked towards the window, wrapping her arms around herself but avoiding touching her midsection at all costs, as if doing so would mean she'd accepted what was happening inside her, "N-no, that's not right. I can't…that doesn't…I-I don't know what that means!"

Inside, she knew it was true, yet at the same time, she didn't know anything at all, her thoughts scrambled and scattered about by this terrible, terrible realization. Suddenly lightheaded, she took a deep breath when she discovered that her lungs had ceased to draw in air, struck motionless along with the rest of her body. Neither Éponine nor Thérèse said a thing for a minute or two, but eventually, Éponine remembered how to speak properly once more, "It happened that night. The night…the night on the table, when he…" she stopped for a moment to steady her labored breathing, "It happened then. I-I know it did."

"The child could've very well been conceived another time, my lady-"

"No. No, it was then." Then, her voice grew softer, shakier, "It happened then." Thérèse did not see the sense in contradicting her any further when she seemed so convinced, and so she did not, holding her tongue for the first time in a long while. Éponine turned to her all at once, her appearance nervous and like a scared little child's, "I don't want it."

"My dear!" Thérèse inhaled sharply, shocked and disturbed by her words.

"It's _his_," she spat. Her hand crept to her stomach and bunched the cloth there up in her fist, "I hate him. And I…" she turned away again and admitted quietly, "I hate it, too."

"You should not say such a thing," she walked over and placed both hands on the younger girl's shoulders, forcing Éponine to face her, "Listen to me. What the Inspector did is no fault of the child's."

Éponine lowered her eyes, but found, somehow, that she could not manage to contemplate the woman's words and consider them in earnest. Her heart was hardened with nothing but loathing for the Inspector, and because she hated him so fervently, she'd hate any part of him, too. Perhaps, she thought, she should feel guilty for harboring that feeling towards the defenseless baby inside her, but she didn't care, far too caught up in the need to regain control of her body as she was, to expel this child from within her, to _get it out._

"There are ways, aren't there?" she murmured more to herself than Thérèse, "W-ways to… to get rid of a baby?"

"Good Lord in heaven…" she backed away from her in horror. To know that Éponine's dislike toward the Inspector would extend to such an awful thing disgusted her, "Yes there are ways, but I wouldn't dare speak of them for fear of endangering my immortal soul! Taking a life is a sin, madame! A _mortal_ sin!" Upon seeing that her words had no effect on Éponine, she tried a different approach, placing a hand on her shoulder and speaking tenderly, "It is yours as well. Not just his."

She took no heed of her words, "I don't _care_ if it's mine! I don't want any child of his. I _don't_."

It wasn't fair, she thought, for this child to be given to her now, when she was already miserable enough as it was. Though perhaps some would think of a baby as a blessing, all she could see it as was a curse, a burden, and she hoped so desperately that this was only a horrible, lengthy nightmare from which she would eventually find herself about to awake. Numbly, she managed to command her legs to move toward the bed and let herself fall on top of it, all the strength in her limbs abandoning her. However, she didn't cry, and instead only glanced out the window, her shoulders slumping in defeat as she realized there was no way out of this for her, now. The tiny, pathetic hope she'd had that perhaps the Inspector would take pity on her and have their marriage annulled on the grounds of non-consummation was dashed by the news of this baby. She was trapped in wedlock with him, and running away with a child would be unwise and difficult, likely more difficult than she could manage in her fragile emotional and physical states. In that instant, Éponine felt sick inside; not sick from the pregnancy as she'd often been as of late, but sick in a deeper place – sick in her heart, as though her very soul had been poisoned. This child was yet another unwanted tie to the Inspector, she thought, and she wanted so very much to get away, to break all the fetters that bound her here, but she couldn't. Before, although it had been small, there had been a chance of escape, a faint light at the end of this tunnel, and now that light had vanished, her hope snuffed out like the weak, flickering flame of a candle.

She suddenly became aware of Thérèse taking a seat herself beside her and draping an arm around her shoulders like she had the first time they'd met, on the morning after her wedding night. The old woman gave her a reassuring squeeze, but when she spoke, her tone was grave, "Should you like me to tell the Inspector for you, madame, I would do it."

"No," she looked down at her lap, "No, I'll tell him. But not today. Not…not right away." She paused, thought for a moment, cleared her throat, and then said, "But would you tell the Inspector I won't be down for breakfast, Thérèse? I…I'd like to be alone."

The older woman nodded without a word of protest, and left her alone with a final, light tap on her back. Once the door was shut behind the woman, Éponine lied down on the bed and curled up into a ball, longing for the warm, safe arms of slumber but finding that they stealthily evaded her every time she neared them. She was left teetering uncomfortably on the edge, inches from falling off the brink into sleep but held back for reasons unknown to her. Part of her felt like a terrible person for wishing her child away, but no matter how bad she felt about it, she could think of nothing else except the foreign invader in her body, growing there, unaware of how she wished it gone with everything that she was. She closed her eyes and tried to dream that Marius was beside her, but once more, she was yanked unceremoniously to the ground, like a crippled bird trying and failing to take flight. All of a sudden, her stomach felt as heavy as lead inside her, anchoring her body to the bed and preventing any further movement. An hour passed in what seemed like minutes. Still, sleep failed to come to her, and so she began to wish on imaginary stars in the midday sky time and time again, though she knew it was useless. She wished for Marius to think of her at that instant – to remember her kiss for just a brief second – and then, she wished for the child within her to suddenly cease to exist, for it to disappear all at once and leave no sign that it'd ever been there at all.

Finally, she wished for sleep, and by some divine miracle, her eyelids fluttered closed at last, and her wish was granted.

* * *

A few hours before dinner two days later, Éponine went to the Inspector in his study, where he sat working on paperwork for the Prefect like he always seemed to be. She hung back in the doorway for a while, watching him in silence, observing the intense focus with which he worked, listening to the sound his pen made as it scratched across the paper, wondering, for a moment, what kind of father he would be, but eventually, she walked closer to stand in front of his desk and cleared her throat, clenching her hands together tightly behind her back. He raised his eyes to look at her, and nearly the second he did, he set down his pen to stop what he was doing, sensing that the desolate and unhappy air about her was even graver than it usually was.

Neither said a word for a while, until he ended the silence, "Thérèse told me you were not feeling well this morning."

"Yes," she nodded, "I was sick to my stomach."

As she'd suspected, he failed to realize what that meant, "Are you…better now?"

"I-I think so," she told him, though she knew all too well it was a lie.

"Good." He thought for a moment, rose to his feet, and stepped hesitantly toward her. As he'd anticipated, she stepped away from him, and he frowned but remained undeterred. When he advanced once more, she retreated, and the pattern of walking toward and walking away turned into a sort of twisted dance, until Éponine was nearly pressed up against the wall, her fear palpable and her face breaking out into a cold sweat. Javert was closer than she'd allowed him to be in months, and he had to stop himself from being drawn in even more, finding her faint, flowery scent intriguing.

"Monsieur…what are you-"

"I think of that night every day," he cut her off gently, and she looked up at him in surprise, unsure of why that he would willingly discuss the night she was sure both of them would rather forget.

"A-and you think I don't? I do too, and now…now…"

"Now what?" His voice grew harsh and loud before he could stop it, and he cringed the instant he saw her begin to cry.

"Now I'm…" she pressed her eyes closed, but could not seem to give herself leave to tell him the news she'd previously kept a carefully guarded secret, known only to herself and Thérèse, "I'm…"

He was getting impatient with her blubbering, "Good God woman, _what is it_?"

Angered, she raised both of her hands to his chest and pushed him away from her, "Now I'm with child! There! A-are you happy now?"

The words were stolen right from his mouth at that moment, and he backed away, appearing to be almost scared of this news. He could see the rage buried deep in her eyes as plain as day, and it did not take him long to realize that she was angry, furious at him for giving her this child when she detested him so. His face remained blank, and, after he stalked back over to his desk, running his fingers over the smooth wood, he glanced toward Éponine, who remained up against the wall, unmoving, "That is…good news."

"It's not _good news_!" she hissed, and he clenched his jaw. When she spoke again, her voice had lost all of its venomous power and become but a despondent, raspy whisper, "It's not good news at all."

"You hate me, don't you?" he observed. When she failed to answer, he took it as a confirmation, "And you hate the child as well."

Since he seemed to know already, she didn't bother denying it, "Of course I do. I-it…it's _yours_."

He breathed out through his nose and pressed his lips together, "I recall telling you, on the day we met, that I hoped you would one day learn to tolerate me. And if you refuse to tolerate me…" he took a seat at his desk, but his gaze never deviated from hers. He did not growl or yell; instead, he spoke solemnly, mournfully, a frown weighing on his face, "Then for the love of God, tolerate the child. They do not deserve to share in the hatred you have for me, madame."

For the first time in a long while, she considered the idea that, perhaps, Javert was right, that the unborn baby was indeed blameless, innocent, and did not deserve to be despised so strongly. Even so, she wasn't sure if she could ever love them properly, in the way she would love a child of the man she adored: Marius. She hated the idea of her baby growing up without a good mother but still, she could not reconcile herself to the idea of loving a child that was half Javert's. She swallowed and folded her hands in front of her, "No. No, I suppose you're right."

She turned to leave, but the sound of his atypically gentle voice stopped her, "Take care of yourself." She did not turn, but she could hear just the tiniest, slightest hint of concern in his tone, "Do not let harm come to them."

She did not smile or nod or say she would, did not reassure him that she would give her life to protect the baby without a second thought. Éponine said nothing at all and exited his study without speaking even a word, knowing full well that she could never promise him such a thing.

* * *

A week passed, then two, then three, and Éponine saw no further changes in herself – at least none that were visible to her eyes. She knew that the child would grow, force her stomach outward on its quest to maturity, but she realized that didn't care much about how she looked when she wasn't with Marius, anyway, and so that mattered little to her. She knew eventually she would no longer be able to pretend it didn't exist, yet even so, she ordered Thérèse to lace her corsets as tight as they would go every morning, so as to conceal the stubborn curve of her abdomen. Though she hadn't previously thought it possible, she fell down into an even darker abyss, and all around her, there was nothing but darkness, darkness inside her, darkness where the child grew. So on and on she stumbled down a tunnel without a light at the end, surviving each day but not living. One night, it all became too much for her to bear, and so she snuck a bottle of liquor from the kitchens and withdrew into one of the large, empty rooms in the home, sitting herself down at a dusty desk and pouring the strong alcohol into a glass she'd brought along as well. When she was done, however, she did not take a drink, and instead only stared with bizarre fascination as the amber liquid sloshed around in the glass, beckoning her, calling to her, offering her an escape from the world. She'd never had much to drink in the past, but it seemed to numb the Inspector well enough, she mused, so why couldn't it do the same for her? She yearned for numbness, for oblivion, for a state of mind in which nothing was real, where she wasn't married and the baby did not exist, and if this was the only way to obtain such a state of mind, then so be it. She tipped the glass back and took a drink, but hardly even managed to swallow a sip before she heard footsteps on the hardwood floor behind her. The tiny gulp of liquor felt like fire in her throat, and she recoiled but made to take another drink anyway, ignoring the person behind her whom she was almost certain was the Inspector. Who else could it be, really? she thought. He was always everywhere, aware of her location at every waking moment as though he had eyes in the sky. When she raised the glass once more, she found that she couldn't, and discovered a large hand was holding it to the desk.

"What do you think you're doing?" Javert demanded, and she met his gaze haughtily, somehow convinced she was already intoxicated with only a couple tiny sips of alcohol.

"Getting drunk seems to make you forget who _you_ are," she retorted, "Can it not do the same for me?"

He snarled, "You should not drink potent liquors. Wine, perhaps – but not this. You are carrying our child for Christ's sake."

"Do you think I've failed to remember that?" she laughed, "Do you think I could ever _forget_?"

"Judging by your recent behavior, I cannot be entirely sure." When he swept the bottle up out of her reach, she rose to her feet in an attempt to retrieve it from him. Since he was stronger and much taller, however, she had no luck.

"Give that back!"

Upon seeing how flustered she was getting, he tried to soothe Éponine, but his exasperation with her expressed itself instead, "Don't get so worked up. Calm yourself, lest you hurt that baby more than you already have."

"You do not control me! A-and…and neither does this…_thing_ inside me! Stop telling me what I can and cannot do," she grabbed onto his forearm and held it as tightly as she could, "My body is my own and I will do with it what _I_ please!"

"You would do well to remember, madame, that when you married me, your body became _mine_ as well. But that isn't what is important, now." She released her hold on him, but he stayed near her, ensuring he was too close for comfort, too close to put her at ease, "What is important now is that you make certain that our child arrives into this world safely, and that you do nothing to hinder it."

"Is that all I am to you?" she spat, "A vessel to bear your children?"

"Unfortunately, you've given me little reason to think of you as anything more."

"The fact that I don't trust you isn't _my_ fault," she folded her arms and sighed, suddenly unwilling to fight any more with him, as she knew it would be in vain, "Now, if you'll excuse me, _husband_, I'm going to bed."

"Very well," he said, his voice low, for he did not want to argue any more either, in truth. He took a few steps away from her and nodded, "Goodnight."

When she spun around, he found his eyes drawn to a dark, blotchy spot on her dress, in the place that would be directly below the area between her legs had she been sitting. He frowned, wondering why she wouldn't have noticed such a large stain when putting on her dress, but when she stepped into a stream of moonlight near the door, he noticed with horror the actual color of the stain. Red. Bright, undeniable red.

It was blood. Fresh blood.

"Stop."

"What?" she turned around all at once, irritated at the interruption yet confused by the smallness of his voice, "What is it?"

Perplexed as well, she traced his gaze to the back of her dress, and, with fright abruptly slithering into her mind like a snake, she grabbed her skirts and moved them to the side so she could get a glance of what he was looking so intensely at. When her eyes met the spot as well, she gasped, and threw a hand over her mouth in terror to hold back her screams. There was too much for it to be a sudden, unexpected return of her courses, she thought. She'd never seen so much blood come from her body before, and it made her nauseous.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

"Th-there's blood…Why is there…" she looked back at him in shock, before fatigue shot through her entire body and brought her to her knees. Suddenly, she realized just where the blood must be coming from, and crippling fear entered her mind, paralyzing her limbs further and forcing her arms to go limp. The Inspector ran over and caught her only seconds before she hit the ground, her weight falling back against him as lightly as a little child's. Javert felt one of her shaking hands grab onto his arm, and before her panicked breathing prevented her from talking any more, she panted out, "Get help. Get…Thérèse; get…get someone."

When he made no move to let her go, she hit his chest weakly, her vision beginning to spin and a slight, barely detectable throbbing starting to fester in her middle, where the child rested. She raised her eyes to meet his, only to find that he was frozen in terror, and so she ordered weakly once more to rouse him from his fright-induced trance, "_Get help_."

In silent terror, Javert hesitated once again, but after a moment had passed, he took off out the door and down the hallway, tearing past anything and anyone in his way.

* * *

**()**

* * *

"The child has gone to God. I am sorry, Javert," Thérèse said to him, but he did not need to be told.

He'd known from the instant he'd seen the blood on Éponine's dress that the child would be lost – killed, perhaps, by the hate of its mother. No child could survive in the womb of a woman poisoned by loathing for it and its father, he thought; surely, not even the strongest of babes could pull through such an ordeal. It'd never stood a chance, he mused – not from the moment he'd taken her on the table against her will and made her detest him with everything that she was. The child had barely even been known to the world, either, there and gone in what seemed like no time at all. Sometimes, he found it hard to believe that it'd ever even existed in the first place. He had never seen any swelling in his wife's stomach. He had never felt the child stir. It'd been doomed before any of that, in heaven maybe even before it learned how to feel. Dead. Gone. The only memory of it the stain on Éponine's clothing and the puny scrap of life bundled in a little cloth and handed to him by Thérèse only moments ago. It did not resemble a child, he thought as he peeled back the fabric and looked at the shriveled, purple thing lying there, lifeless. It hardly even resembled a human, gone long before it could form properly as it was. It had a head – that much was clear to him – and if he looked closely, he thought he could see two minute arms curled up against its body, as if desperately trying to hold onto life but being torn from its mother's body before its time. It was hardly even a few meager inches long, and, as Thérèse had told him, likely only two or three months old. For a moment, though he did not often allow himself such liberties, he pictured the child, had it reached maturity and come into the world ready for life, its heart prepared to beat, its lungs prepared to breathe. Would it have had his eyes? Her hair? His dark complexion?

It didn't matter now, he thought as he folded the cloth back over the little body and set it on the table before him with the utmost gentleness, the promise of new life nothing but a memory now. Although he had seen corpses many times while on the job, none had ever given him a feeling such as this. He'd seen dead criminals, dead thieves, dead prostitutes, but he'd never once seen the death of something so helpless, so dependent on someone else for survival, and it made him sick. He didn't understand. God should never have allowed this to happen, should never have let an innocent to perish so soon, and even though he'd never dared to before, he cursed God for doing such a thing, for killing his child, for bringing about its premature death. Could it even be called death, really? He wasn't sure. He wondered if they were ever truly alive, but what, exactly, did being alive mean? He could only hope and pray that the babe had not been able to feel, had not been capable of terror as the hands of death enclosed it. For a moment, he only stared at the cloth, but abruptly, he grew angry. The bundle should be filled with a healthy, living, squalling newborn, he thought; not with the motionless runt that'd had breath stolen from its body before it could breathe. All his life, he'd worshipped justice, and he knew this was not justice. This was a crime, he decided, but a crime without a clear culprit, a murder without a murderer. So easily could he place the blame solely on Éponine for wishing the child gone in the first place, but he realized, at the same time, that her heart would not be filled with such animosity had it not been for him.

"What was it?" he asked quietly, "A boy or girl?"

Thérèse sighed, "I fear it had not developed enough to tell."

He closed his eyes upon hearing those words.

"What caused this?" His tone was clipped, sorrowful, but he was not in tears and did not intend to allow himself to reach such a pitiful state.

"There's no way to know for certain, but it was unlikely that it was the alcohol. She drank far too little for it to have harmed the babe."

"She hated it," he murmured, his head resting in his hands, "She hated it, and she wanted it dead. That's why it died."

Thérèse said nothing for a moment, unable to contradict this statement, but eventually spoke up once more, "If the child had lived and been born into the world, I imagine she would've learned to love them, in time. Perhaps she could've loved them the way that…_you _loved them, Inspector."

He looked up at her in surprise, and she was startled to see how bloodshot his eyes were after remaining up all through the night here at the dining room table, torturing himself with drunken memories of the despicable things he'd done to Éponine on its surface. After a moment, he hung his head once more, "Don't be ridiculous. It is not possible to love someone you've never met."

"I believe it's entirely possible. And I also believe…" she took a seat beside him, "that seeing her hate the baby killed you inside."

"She hated it," he repeated grimly, ignoring her statement, "She would not even deny it when I asked her. I told her to take care of herself." He scoffed, "And of course she did not listen." She opened her mouth again, but he spoke first, "Was she in pain?"

"No," she shook her head, "She told me she didn't see the blood until you did. I believe the baby was gone long before anyone even realized what was happening."

"There was no way a doctor could've saved it?"

She sighed, "Once a miscarriage begins, there is no way to stop it."

He nodded almost imperceptibly, and then finally seemed to remember the presence of the dead child before them. His mind became clouded by disgust – for himself, for Éponine, for God and justice and everything that should've kept this from happening. "Get rid of it," he ordered quietly, and when she did not comply, his voice became a hoarse, guttural growl. He got to his feet and turned his back to her, "Bury it. Toss it in the trash. Throw the thing onto the fire for all I care – just get it out of my sight!"

Finally, Thérèse picked the cloth up slowly, but before she turned to leave, suggested, "You should go and see her, Javert."

He nearly laughed, "She will not want to see me."

"On the contrary. She asked for you earlier."

He looked up in mild surprise. "Why in God's name would she do that?" he muttered, and Thérèse shrugged.

"I know not, but I do know that you two cannot live forever ignoring each other."

"She seems quite content to."

Thérèse's patience waned at that moment, "Then give her a reason not to! She may not want to try, but if you don't either, this whole thing will never be resolved. You are a good man, Javert. I know it. So apologize to her!"

"She does not want my apologies."

"You're wrong," she said as she looked down at the lost baby in her hands, cradling it gently, as though it was still alive, "She just wants a more sincere apology than she's been given."

"You of all people should know, Thérèse, that I am incapable of sincerity – or at least the kind she seems to expect."

Thérèse did not respond for a moment, handing the child over to a nearby serving girl and ordering her to bury it in the gardens as she was, but once she approached him once more, she scowled, "Good Lord, get up there, man!"

"Leave me. I should like to grieve alone."

"Come now-"

"_Leave_, Thérèse."

This time, she did nothing more to fight him and instead walked out mutely, leaving him alone in the near darkness to brood in silence. After a few more minutes, however, the silence became unbearable, as loud and as bloodcurdling as a symphony of screams, and his ears began to ring, his feet commanding him to climb the stairs and see Éponine. Though he was largely uncertain of why he felt the sudden need to do such a thing, he obeyed and stalked out of the dining room and up the stairs, passing by Thérèse and cringing when he realized that he was doing exactly what she wanted. Still, he did not turn around, and when he reached his wife's door, he entered slowly, his footsteps as light and as mouse-like as a man of his stature could make them. He approached her bed slowly, and once she noticed he was there, her eyes followed him until he took a seat at her bedside, and only then did she glance away. Remarkably, however, she was not at all attempting to move away from him or distance herself, and was instead lying calmly before Javert, almost as if she was too tired to fear him anymore.

"I lost it," she told him, and he nodded gravely. "I'm sorry."

He looked up at her with something akin to shock, "Don't apologize." He cleared his throat, "I believe it is I who should…apologize to you, madame."

"For what?"

He frowned, "As I had attempted to tell you before…There is not a day that passes when I don't recall that night. And there is not a day that passes when I don't regret my actions." He took a breath, then kept going, "Perhaps I am not able to express my remorse in a way that will satisfy you; I fear I am not…good with people. But I hope you will accept this apology. It is all the sincerity I am capable of."

He saw just the tiniest of smiles creep onto her face, and for a moment, he thought he could see her try to fight the expression off, but it won out in the end. Timidly, without a word, she reached out and extended her hand to him. He was unsure of what she wanted at first, but then, he realized she wanted him to hold her hand, and though he could not fathom why, he slid his hand into hers and held it firmly.

"All right," she mumbled, "I don't…don't want to fight anymore. I'm tired."

Surprising even himself, he responded with a soft kiss on the back of her hand, executed slowly and hesitantly like a schoolboy courting for the first time. He was, in essence, a schoolboy in terms of love, he mused with a frown. For all his experience in law enforcement, he had little experience in communicating with people or romancing a woman, but he thought, perhaps, that that would not always be so. Perhaps one day he could learn not to be so cold toward everyone, could learn to charm Éponine in the way she seemed to want him to. It was unlikely, he thought, but perhaps he could. However, only seconds later, he cursed himself for entertaining such thoughts. He was a man who never changed; he was known for being static, stationary. He had remained the same for far too many years to ever become anything different, he decided.

"I-I think it knew, somehow," Éponine breathed, bringing him from his thoughts, "It knew I didn't want it. Maybe that's…maybe that's why I lost it." She let out a shaky breath, "I-I didn't want it but I wouldn't…I may've thought I would but I didn't want…didn't want to kill it."

"You did not kill it. It was God's will," he said, though he did not believe it for a minute.

She squeezed his hand a little and bit her lip, "But why would God want such a thing?"

He swallowed, for he himself hadn't a clue, "I do not know, madame."

"Why do you never call me Éponine?" she muttered sleepily, her eyelids drawing closer and closer together with every passing second. She yawned, "Surely…we're on a first name basis, now."

He said nothing, but when he imagined himself speaking her Christian name aloud, it sounded alien in his mind, as though he would be speaking a foreign language he couldn't understand. Though he did not prefer to get that personal with anyone, he didn't want to deny her anything now, when their reconciliation was still so fresh and ever so breakable, "Very well. Éponine."

"Did she show it to you? The…the baby?" He nodded, and her lower lip trembled, memories of the tiny thing sticking stubbornly in her memory. Waves of fatigue continued to shot through her like bullets in her chest, entering and exiting and leaving her exhausted in their wake, but she fought to stay conscious with all her might, "I-it was so little. So _small_. And it's arms…it's arms…"

"You are tired." As he no longer wished to think of or discuss the child, he began to get to his feet, "I will leave you to rest."

Much to his surprise, she did not release her hold on him, "Would you stay? Not-not for long, just…until I'm asleep."

Under normal circumstances, he would've refused without a second thought and done what he'd wanted without regard to the feelings of anyone else. But when he felt the fragile strength of her hand in his, and saw the weakness and distress in her eyes, he knew he could not turn her away. Besides, he told himself, she did not want him – not really. She only wanted someone to comfort her, and he imagined that she didn't care who they were, in her state. While he himself had never understood the idea of having someone with him just so he would not be alone, he complied with her wishes and took a seat beside her once more. A weary smile crossed her face, and then, only minutes later, her eyes fell closed, her grasp on his hand going slack and her breathing evening out. Though he knew very well he could leave now, something obliged him to stay, to watch her while she rested as if doing so would regain her trust after shattering it so long ago.

Javert was wholly unaware that he was being watched, and so when Thérèse passed by them in the hallway and smiled at the image of Javert holding his wife's hand tightly in his own as though it had become a part of him, he did not notice a thing.

* * *

"W-would you come back to my bed tonight?"

The Inspector nearly choked on his dinner upon hearing those words spoken so timidly, in such a hopeful voice. Still reeling from shock at the idea she'd want him sharing a bed with her again, he set down his fork, dabbed a napkin on his mouth, cleared his throat, and raised an eyebrow. She seemed to understand his surprise, and stuttered lamely, "Not to…to lie together, but…I-I don't want to be alone."

"Thérèse sleeps on a cot bedside your bed now, does she not?"

She nodded, unwilling, however, to speak the truth aloud; to admit that, against all reason, she wanted him to hold her. She thought back to their wedding night, and recalled how comforting and strong his arms had felt encircling her, and though she feared trusting him after what he'd done, she found she did not want to fight the desire to be held, caressed, treasured.

For the first time, Éponine realized that she didn't want Marius to hold her. She wanted Javert – wanted her husband, the man she hadn't wanted to marry – and the thought terrified her.

He was silent for a moment, then nodded, "All right, then. If you wish, Éponine."

They finished the rest of their meal in relative quiet, neither daring to venture out and begin a conversation lest a veil of awkwardness be brought over them. Secretly, she was pleased at the use of her name, though she'd never admit it to anyone if asked. Such a little thing should not matter, she told herself. Such a small step could never equate to the giant leap the Inspector had to take to become a feeling human being. Still, she knew such a thing would take a long time – years, perhaps – and she also knew rushing him to change would do no good. But perhaps, she thought, one day, he could change. Though she knew it was unlikely, maybe he could.

Tossing those thoughts from her head, she excused herself from the table once her plate was nearly clean and headed toward her bedroom, where she changed into her nightgown and seated herself at the vanity to await the Inspector's arrival. After a few minutes passed, she heard the door creak open slowly, and saw a tall shadow approach her. She rose to her feet, nodded at him, and then strolled toward the bed. Éponine then proceeded to bury herself under the sheets, and the Inspector did the same, blowing out the only candle in the room and bathing the two of them in darkness. He turned to her at that moment, his eyes silently asking her if she wanted him to move closer to her, and so mutely, she nodded. When he took her gently into his embrace, she let out a sigh, allowing her muscles to relax against him.

She bit her lip, memories of their lost child swarming her mind like insects and refusing to leave her be. "I didn't mean it," she muttered, and though he knew she couldn't see his face, he threw her a confused glance.

"What?"

"When I said I hated the baby…" she closed her eyes, "I-I don't think I hated it, I…"

"There is no need to speak of that anymore," he said lowly, his mouth mere inches from her shoulder, "It is in the past." He let out a breath, "But I cannot say I blame you for not wanting any… child of mine."

"That's the past too," she mumbled. He felt her cringe a little at those thoughts, and his hold on her grew unconsciously tighter, "Wouldn't it be nice to start over? T-to forget everything from before?"

"Such a thing is not possible."

She frowned sleepily, his firm embrace beckoning her closer and closer to slumber, "You don't think so? I think it is. Wouldn't you like to forget?"

He considered this for a second, recalling especially the night on the table, "Yes. Perhaps I would."

"Then we will. We…we will forget." She took a deep breath and settled herself nearer still to Javert, "And now we can begin again. You never know, Inspector…" she allowed herself a little smile, "Maybe one day, we could even learn to be happy."

"You believe you could be happy in a marriage with me?" He sounded almost astonished, and she chuckled.

"I don't know. Maybe. Do you believe_ you_ could be happy in a marriage with me?"

Though he contemplated the possibility that he could, he said only, "I am not a happy person."

She chuckled again, "I know that. But people can change, can't they?"

"Not I," he grunted, "I do not change."

"Very well. Then I will try to be happy, and you will… remain unchanged." She paused, then mused with a tiny grin, the feeling of his arms around her lulling her body closer to sleep, "I suppose it's better than being miserable."

They lay there in silence after that, and in time, the Inspector drifted off, but Éponine did not slumber and instead nestled herself further into him, finding peculiar comfort in the feeling of his large arms nearly engulfing her. She felt safer than she ever had before, as though his embrace was a stronghold, a fortress nothing could penetrate, and Éponine didn't know why. He was a cold man who had been unkind to her many times before, but, she thought, his softly-spoken words to her had made her reconsider, and had even, perhaps, changed her mind about him.

Maybe she had been wrong. Perhaps he wasn't the man she thought he was.

It was then that she felt it again; the same feeling she'd felt on their wedding night, when he'd held her silently with an embrace that had said all the words he was not capable of; words of comfort, of gentleness – perhaps even words of affection. What she felt was not happiness nor was it even content, but it was the mere promise of happiness, a hope for the future, a glimpse of light through the darkness. The light was not strong or vibrant, and was instead more like a weak flame, but she didn't mind.

With a sleepy grin playing on her lips, Éponine decided, then, that that was enough, for now.


End file.
